


Catching Lightning in a Bottle

by sabrecmc



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Sweet Home Alabama Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Divorce, Eventual Happy Ending, Fanart, Getting Back Together, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Post-Break Up, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 120,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5787061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrecmc/pseuds/sabrecmc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College student Tony meets janitor Steve at MIT and they fall blissfully in love, until Howard happens and things fall apart.  One divorce paperwork snafu courtesy of the ever-helpful Jarvis, and ten years later, Tony has to get re-divorced from Steve.  </p><p>This does not go as he imagines.</p><p>Or, the Sweet Home Alabama AU that no one--well, okay, a few of you--asked for.</p><p>Fanart included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Again?” Tony asked, dropping the precision groover with a dull thud as Pepper’s heels clicked across the floor of the Tower’s workshop in what he’d already determined to be her version of high-fashion annoyed stomping.

“I don’t know why you don’t just have your lawyer or, I don’t know, a former CIA wetworks team handle this.  This time it was, and I swear I am not making this up, a one-armed man who told me that, and I’m quoting, “If Stark wants Stevie to sign something so badly, the---uh, okay, well, I’m not quoting that part, but, basically, you---can drag his ass out of that monstrosity of his and come down here and say it to him in person,” and then slammed the door in my face,” Pepper replied, bristling at the memory. 

Tony winced, mouth flattening into a thin line.  “Ah.  You’ve met Barnes, then.  Still has the same charming personality, I see.”

“Your ex, or soon-to-be-ex or whatever he is, has quite the collection of…of…defenders to say the least,” Pepper agreed, slumping into a chair and tossing the folder of paperwork onto one of Tony’s workstations.  Tony stared at it for a long minute.  This stupid snafu should’ve been over and done with weeks ago.  Hell, this whole thing was supposed to have been over and done with years ago, he thought, rubbing the heel of his hand into his forehead. 

“Last time, it was a redhead yelling at me in Russian,” Pepper continued.  She leaned her head back in the chair, swiveling it a bit back and forth with the toes of her shoes as her fingers dug small circles into her temples.  “I don’t know what she said, but she definitely meant it.  And the time before that, some enormous body-builder with better hair than me telling me this “unworthy task was beneath me.”  Who are these people?” she demanded, throwing her hands up in the air in a gesture of exasperation.

“His friends,” Tony replied.  My friends, too, once, or he’d thought they were.  But that had been a lifetime ago.

“Look,” she began, waving off the question.  “I don’t know why these people are up in arms.  I mean, you both wanted the divorce, right?  You said your father paid him some kind of alimony settlement, so it isn’t like he can claim fraud or anything.  No court is going to let a filing error suddenly give him rights to anything you’ve built, Tony.  Why not just go down there yourself, talk to the guy, explain what happened and be done with this?”

“I don’t want to see him,” Tony said, looking away from her too-direct gaze.  I don’t want to see him.  I don’t want to talk to him.  I don’t want to _think_ about him, and every time I think I might actually be able to do that, there’s a smell or a taste or something just out of the corner of his eye, and he’d end up thinking of that crappy closet of an apartment with the mattress on the floor, a thin, stringy towel tacked up over the window, and a toaster oven with a couple of burners on top making the world’s worst curry and rice, and it would hurt.  Hurt so damn much, because he’d been happy, for once in his miserable life.  Deluded and completely played, sure, but happy, and it was almost worth ignoring the first part for the latter.   Almost.  It shouldn’t still sting this much, but here it was again, years later and Steve Rogers was still fucking up his life.

“Okaaaaaay,” she said after a beat, drawing out the word.  “How is it you were married to this random guy, and I didn’t even know about it until now, anyway?”

“Howard kept it out of the papers,” Tony replied quickly.  “Got some judge friend of his to seal all the records.” One thing they’d ever agreed on, Tony thought dully.  Howard hadn’t wanted anyone to get wind of just how easy a mark his son was, and Tony hadn’t wanted anyone to know exactly how much of a naïve idiot he’d been.

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Pepper pointed out, but didn’t press, just let the question hang there, her expression going strangely soft.  Tony supposed he owed her something of an explanation, considering what she’d been dealing with on his behalf the past couple of weeks.

“It was a long time ago,” Tony finally settled on.  “I was doing my grad work at MIT.  He worked there.  Janitor,” Tony explained.  He hated how his voice sounded, strained and trying too hard not to be. “Cliché, right?” Tony asked around a huff of air.  He didn’t want to talk about this, particularly not this part, the part where everything had seemed so good, and there had been this amazing future in his head that for the first time in his life made him actually look forward to it. 

“Were you…was this about Howard?” Pepper asked carefully.

“Getting back at the old man with a little petty revenge fling?  No.  Good call, but no,” Tony admitted, sucking in a long breath and letting it out slowly before continuing.  He felt a phantom chill run through him, and remembered waking up groggy and cold, stomach churning and completely disoriented to find bright, blue eyes staring back at him in what had seemed like genuine concern at the time. 

“I threw up on him, and he put me in a decontamination shower in the Chem lab,” Tony recalled with a twist of his mouth.  “Your basic love at first sight thing.  Or, I fell in love with him, anyway.  He…he fell in love with my dad’s bank account, as it turned out.  Got paid for his time and left.  I learned a very valuable lesson, or so Howard liked to remind me from time to time.  That’s it.  End of story,” Tony finished with a shrug, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile based on Pepper’s sharp look.

“Except, apparently not,” Tony amended, folding his arms behind his head with a grimace.  “Because my lawyers inform me that one of the affidavits in the divorce paperwork had an improper notarization on it and they worry the whole thing might not be valid without going back to court and getting a decree or getting a new one signed.  While there are many parts of myself that I don’t mind seeing on the front page, I have to admit, this is one I’d rather not have played out in public.”

 “I’m sorry, Tony.  I thought—well.  I don’t know what I thought.  I didn’t know.  Look, don’t worry about this.  I’ll get it taken care of, one way or the other.  There’s no reason for you to have to deal with this…this person….again,” she said archly.  Tony’s mouth curled into a smile at that.  Pepper having his back was a given, but it was still nice to hear.

“No.  No, Pep, I shouldn’t have put this on you to begin with.  I wanted to avoid---well, a lot.  Surprise, surprise, I know.  I thought this would be easier.  Us not having to see each other again.  Thought  maybe he—fuck, I don’t know, felt bad or something.  Wishful thinking, clearly.  I wasn’t going to be a petty bastard about this. Bygones and all.  But, hell, if Steve wants to play hardball, fine.  I’ll handle it,” Tony said.  “He’ll sign or he can deal with every lawyer in New York breathing down his neck.”

“Are you sure, Tony?  Really, I don’t mind,” Pepper offered.  “I was just frustrated and…I shouldn’t have said anything.  I know you wouldn’t ask me without a good reason.  Okay, that’s not entirely true, but I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No.  No, you’re right.  I need to deal with this.  It was a long time ago, and hell, who knows? This might actually be good for me.,” Tony replied tightly, feeling a pit open up where his stomach used to be.  Knowing he needed to deal with it and actually wanting to deal with it were two very different things.  He ran his hands up and down his face, trying to clear his head.  “Like one of those bonfire-of-the-ex things.  Cleansing.  Healing. You’ll see.”  He wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to convince, but neither of them seemed to be exactly buying it. 

“Okay, Tony.  But, if you need anything…Any. Thing. At. All,” Pepper enunciated sternly.  “You tell me, alright?”

“Of course, Ms. Potts,” Tony said with a nod.   He watched her as she left, then turned back to his workstation once he heard the snick of the door closing behind her. The blue schematics of some now-forgotten project hovered in front him, a scattering of precision welding tools in disarray below the projection.  He pushed the chair back far enough to pull open the long, metal drawer at the base of the desk.  In the back, behind bags of dried blueberries, three months’ worth of Popular Mechanics, and some award he didn’t remember winning, there was a faded, stuffed Marvin the Martian doll just bigger than his hand. 

If he closed his eyes, he could see it.  Jimmy’s Balloon Darts on the Bowery, Tony remembered.   Colorful balloons on a pegboard, with a big sign dangling from the front of the booth warning, No Leaning Over the Table.  The tang of salt and fried food in the air, his stomach still protesting from too much saltwater taffy and too much screaming on the Cyclone, feeling almost lightheaded because this, this moment, was so good, so perfect, full of promise and a future where he got to have this so often that he got used to it. 

In hindsight, it had clearly been destined to fail.  He should’ve seen it coming a mile away, but he’d been young and stupid, and Steve had been…well, Steve had still been everything, then.

_“When I asked you to win me something for a honeymoon souvenir, this wasn’t what I had in mind,” Tony grumbled with a frown._

_“Reminds me of you.  Always coming up with ideas.  “Where’s the kaboom? There’s supposed to be an earth-shattering kaboom!’” Steve quoted, shaking the doll at Tony._

_“One time, Rogers.  That happened one time,” Tony protested with a grin.  “Give it here, you dork,” Tony said with an exaggerated sigh.  “You being a sickly child gave you some kind of cartoon-quoting superpower that is entirely unfair.”_

_“I like to think that makes up for all the missed school and time confined to a bed,” Steve nodded agreeably._

_“Hey, there’s one of those photobooth things,” Tony blurted out, grabbing for Steve’s hand.  “What do you say to some truly high class wedding photos?  Look, we even have our choice of backgrounds.  We can pick creepy circus clown, frolicking rainbow ponies or construction vehicles.”_

_Steve looked side-eyed at Tony.  “Rainbow ponies,” they both said together, then broke out laughing.  “Only if Marvin is in the picture, too, though,” Steve objected, beaming brightly at Tony._

_“Naturally.  First family photo and all that,” Tony agreed with a jaunty grin.  “We’re going to look back and laugh at this one day, you know that, right?”_

_“Tony?  I’m laughing at this right now,” Steve replied as he pulled the curtain to the booth back and let Tony step inside, then waved a hand in front of his face as the smell of candy and urine hit them from the inside of the booth._

_Tony  tugged Steve down next to him on the cramped bench inside the photobooth. That didn’t work, so he stood up and let Steve sit down. He dug two fairly smooth dollar bills out of his wallet and fed them into the machine, then plopped down on Steve’s lap, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.  “Why, Steven. Not in front of the children,” Tony protested, putting one hand over Marvin’s eyes.  “You know what I mean,” Tony said, looking over at Steve’s profile.  His husband.  God, it still felt so strange to say that.  Howard was going to raise holy hell, but that was tomorrow’s problem._

_“I know what you mean, Tony,” Steve said, face falling for a moment.  “I know—I’m sorry.  I know this isn’t what you’re used to.”_

_“You’re right.  This isn’t what I’m used to,” Tony agreed, watching Steve’s face shutter before he looked away.  “This is so, so much better, Steve.”  The flash caught them then, and Tony held up the stuffed toy, smiling brightly, while Steve struggled with what to do with his arms.  Two of the pictures were Tony looking like a deer in headlights and Steve being all shoulders, but the first was Steve looking down at Tony, expression gone heartbreakingly soft and the last was the two of them laughing, Tony’s head buried against Steve’s chest while he grinned up at the camera, the stupid doll clutched in his hand._


	2. Chapter 2

As he maneuvered the Audi through the maze of cabs, delivery trucks and work crews that seemed to live on New York streets, Tony decided not to dwell much on the fact that he knew where Steve lived.  Some crappy walk-up in Brooklyn, not so very different from what had, for a little while, at least, been their apartment in Boston.  That particular fire hazard of a building had long ago gone condo during the real estate boom when half of Boston decided to gentrify, but New York held on to shitty apartments like they were grandmother’s pearls, some family heirloom no one liked, but you had to keep around half out of sentiment, half out of obligation.  In the seat next to him, the corner of the manila folder with the divorce paperwork peeked out from under the sleeve of his coat.  He’d spent part of last night paging through them.  Pepper had helpfully tabbed the signature blocks with bright yellow, strangely exuberant ‘Sign Here’ sticky notes.

The paperwork hadn’t changed much from the first time around.  References to the original dissolution.  An acknowledgment statement confirming that effectuating the divorce had been the intent of both parties.  A waiver. That was the lynchpin, he knew.  Steve wouldn’t have a good claim, his lawyer’s assured him.  Almost certain to be dismissed. 

But…but.  Always, the but.  But, there would be a fight, a public one, and it would be tabloid fodder for months, which gave Steve more leverage than Tony ever wanted him to have. 

At least, if it came down to it, Tony could pay him off, though, God, that thought stung, he thought bitterly.  He wondered, not for the first time, what Steve had done with all the money beyond the initial little shopping spree Tony had gotten to see close-up.  Good to know he wasn’t worth quite as much as a new TV and X-box, he supposed, but five million dollars was a lot to blow through, even in a decade’s time.

Tony pulled the car into a space halfway under a No Parking sign a block away from Steve’s building and turned off the ignition.  He leaned back in the seat for a moment as the warm air slowly started to leach out of the car.  It was February, and the snow had come and gone, at least for now, leaving a dark, muddy slush in its wake and grey skies that seemed to match.  Happy was going to freak when he saw the car.  Something about salt on the undercarriage.  He tugged the folder out from under his coat and flipped it open, shifting through the papers and their excited post-it notes, imploring Steve to sign here.  He tossed it back on top of his coat and propped his hands on the steering wheel, tapping lightly at it with his fingertips. 

His phone buzzed insistently from his coat pocket, and he dug it out, seeing Pepper’s familiar face on the screen.  He hit the sent to voicemail button, then listened to it as soon as the notification showed up on his screen.  She was checking in on him, of course, which he’d known before he pushed the play button.  Technically, he’d said he was going to do this first thing in the morning, which, it being nearly four in the afternoon, meant this particular band-aid should have been long pulled.

Fine, so he was stalling. 

He wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing Steve after all this time.  What had begun as a bewildered sort of disillusionment and morphed into seething hate, as much for his own stupidity as aimed at Steve, had long ago faded into something like acceptance. Bitter acceptance, maybe, at times, anyway, but acceptance.  It was part of what shaped him, after all.  For better or worse, he thought dully, as he pulled his sunglasses off and tucked them into his breast pocket.  He wasn’t blind to what he’d become in the years since he’d left MIT.  Or even to the reasons for it.  He’d accomplished more than even dear, old Dad, and each time he looked, the line kept moving, jumping ahead of him, until he’d finally realized he was chasing something he was never going to have. 

So, he wasn’t sure what had kept him blowing through one schematic after the other this morning.   There was a part of him that almost relished the idea of showing up in Steve’s shitty apartment.  Showing up and showing off.  Let Steve see, up close and personal-like, what he could’ve had.  By any calculus you wanted to use, Tony was winning at life.  Petty, sure.  He wasn’t above admitting it. 

Of course, none of that explained why he was sitting here huddled in his car next to the back entrance of a diner watching someone unload bags of soda and CO2 canisters. 

Tony shoved open the car door with too much force, making it rebound a bit, and climbed out.  A gust of frigid wind caught his suit jacket, making it whip as the breeze soughed down the alleyway where he was parked.  He bent over and reached into the car to grab his coat and the folder with the paperwork, switch the folder between his hands as he shoved his arms through the coat sleeves.  He ran his hands up and down his arms to warm them, then patted at his pocket, feeling for the solid weight of his phone.  

He brought his hands to his face and breathed out a few times to warm them, then tucked the folder under one arm and pushed his hands into his pockets.  Pepper was probably worried.  He really should call her back.  At least text.  He did neither, just walked forward towards the street, where streams of pedestrians flowed back and forth, heads down against the cold wind.  The wind hit him again as soon as he was out of the alleyway, like it had been lying in wait.  God, it was cold, he thought with a shiver, hunching his shoulders. Fitting, he supposed.  It was always cold when he met Steve. 

_Honest to God, Ty was an utter and complete asshole, Tony thought in disgust as he marched—stumbled, fuck, whatever—across the Dot, as it was called, for its round, grassy area in the center.  In front of him, the thin legs of The Big Sail rose up, seeming to support far too much of the sculpture’s weight.  It looked a bit like a spiny beetle, if he squinted.  Or, maybe that was the Scotch talking.   Or the vodka.  Or the…what the hell had it been, schnapps?_

_Point being, Ty was an asshole who took assholery to truly epic proportions, and they’d played this little game of his before.  It always up with Tony getting shit on every single fucking time, but he kept limping back for fuck-all reason.  Because he could, he supposed.  Because he could always go back to Ty and get something out of it.  Attention, or what passed for it.  Because Ty sucked cock like a God-damned Hoover on the rare occasion it struck him that ‘twas better to give than receive, because Howard almost approved in the way that it managed to pass for something like approval because Howard was impressed Tony could get someone like Tiberius Stone to notice he existed._

_Because he was nothing if not a glutton for doing the same thing expecting different results, he thought dully, scratching at his forehead with the hand holding the bottle, or trying to anyway.  Mostly, he ended up knocking the bottle into his nose, making the bottle’s amber liquid slosh against the sides.  Because it was better than not doing it, which probably said something about his life._

_Also, the cock-sucking thing._

_Still, even that didn’t quite add up to getting treated like he was invisible until it was pass-around time, like he was some kind of fucking hostess gift.  But tonight, he was fucking done.  D-o-n-e.  Why he’d even gone to the stupid party in the first place was beyond him.  It wasn’t even a grad student thing, just some dingy as shit basement free-for-all with enough powder in the air to make it look like everyone needed a five-gallon jug of Head and Shoulders.  He should’ve listened to Rhodey.  Technically, that was probably a life truism, but he wasn’t going to call Rhodey now and make it even more true, just because it was cold and he’d left his coat back at Studio Fifty-Forgive Me for I Have Sinned._

_He hunched his shoulders against the cold as the wind whipped through the buildings.  The monolithic black-painted steel of the Big Sail rose up in front of him, bulbous, like it was catching the gusts, but actually offered little protection from the wind.  He needed a cab.  He needed a cab or someplace to curl up and die.  One or the other.  That, or he was going to have to find a payphone, call Rhodey and have him drag his ass all the way from Tang to here at half-past drunk o’clock and pick him up.  He could just hole up in one of the labs for the night.  Beiderman had that sofa in his office that looked like something lived in it, but he could crash there for a night.  Save a lecture on the Principles and Applications of I Fucking Told You So from General Fuddy-Duddy._

_Besides, he had Robotics in the morning with Tedrake, which, sure, cakewalk, but he was going to start losing lab time if he was late again, and by ‘late,’ he meant completely absent, since, really, he’d built shit with his erector sets that was practically as advanced as the little walking bugs Tedrake loved so much.  Nonlinear dynamics of passive robots, my ass, Tony mentally scoffed.  Where was the fun in that?_

_Tony stopped, because doing two things at once was currently unadvisable, and upended the bottle he was carrying into his mouth, drinking down the remainder in a few long swallows.  He held the empty bottle away, eyeing it accusingly, then shook the last few, precious drops into his mouth.  His stomach protested, sending bile up his throat, like a very gross canary in a coal mine, before he forced it back down._

_Ah, yes, the sweet taste of stomach acid mingled with fresh booze.  How, I have not missed thee, Tony thought dully, raising the empty bottle in mock salute to Building 54, which towered over the Dot and everything else, having skirted building height codes by being built on fucking stilts.  If there was a way around, over or through a rule, trust an engineer to find it._

_Tony dipped his head back and looked up at concrete building with its weather radome sticking up like the head of a pin on the top and grid of perfectly symmetrical windows that were occasionally lit up to spell IHTFP, the ‘Tute’s unofficial slogan.  Tony glanced at them and briefly considered what they’d look like spelling out FUCK U TY.  Inspired, no doubt.  And Howard thought he lacked an appreciation for architecture.  Hell, he loved 54.  He’d once dropped pumpkins from the top of it with a bunch of First Westers, watching them explode with surprising satisfaction when they hit the Dot.  Ugh.  Fuck. His stomach decided that moment to churn when his mind conjured up the images of the exploding orange viscera that ended up piled all over the Dot in the morning, when costumed revelers had left and the whole area smelled that sweet, buttery, fishy scent that pumpkin, sans all the cute spices dressing it up, left in the air.  Shit, Tony thought, stopping short and clutching at his stomach, which roiled and fluttered like it was riding out a great wave.  Seriously, brain, just…just stop it._

_He staggered over towards one of the large, green garbage cans that stood next to the exit of the Dreyfus Building and tossed the bottle in it. Well, at it.  Whatever.  Tony bent to pick up the bottle by the neck, dropped it, grappling for it with fingers that didn’t to cooperate and sent it skittering across the concrete walkway where rolled to a rest.  Fucking hell.  Littering was a $500 fine, or so the little sign on the metal fence rail next to the garbage can warned him.  He burst out laughing, even though he knew it wasn’t funny, which made it seem all the funnier.  Almost hysterically so.  He dug his wallet out of his back pocket and counted out some bills, then shoved five hundreds down the bottle._

_Here’s your fucking message, he thought.  He tossed it as far as he could, which, as it turned out, wasn’t particularly far by the sound of the shattering glass, what with velocity and aim being decidedly at the bottom of said bottle.  He threw his hands up in the air in triumph anyway, miscalculated the victory lap, twisting his own feet together, sending him into a lurch.  He promptly overcorrected himself right into the garbage can, grabbing for the lid that came off in his hands as he fell over the top of the dam nthing, spewing yesterday’s trash and him onto the walkway.  Same difference, he supposed, rolling off to one side and putting his cheek flat against the cool cement._

_Fucking. Hell._

_The smell hit him then, sickly sweet and rotten, some demonic mix of Mountain Dew, bagels and coffee drinks that bore little to no resemblance to actual coffee.  He groaned and pushed himself up onto his hands in time to avoid drowning in a puddle of garbage and his own vomit, so irony was just going to have to take a fucking number._

_“Umgh,” Tony managed to choke out around fits of coughing and wheezing lines of stuff he didn’t want to think about out of his nose and mouth.  God, this was miserable, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut as his stomach tried to rebel again.  This was all Ty’s fucking fault, anyway.  He’d love this, though.  Take a fucking picture.  Probably send a copy to Howard.  Here’s your son and a pile of garbage.  The two of them could sit around in smoking jackets and play spot the difference together.   So nice when your boyfriend can really find some kind of hobby to share with your parents.  “Fuck,” Tony swore out loud.  He wanted to get up, and he wanted to never move again, though, right now, immobility was the only option available to him.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  If he opened his eyes and looked at it, he was going to barf again, no question about that.  Actually, probably no question about that, full stop, he amended as his stomach clenched._

_“You…ah, you okay there?”  a man’s voice asked from somewhere to his left._

_“Peachy,” Tony rasped out, then coughed, great, heaving, wet coughs that sent spittle flying._

_“Uh-huh,” the voice said.  Tony heard the scuff of shoes and jangle of keys next to him and managed to angle his head enough to see a pair of brown boots under dark navy—dear Lord, polyester—pants.  Rent-a-cop, probably.  JesusfuckingChrist, if he got written up for littering, he would just quit the world.  Buy supplies.  Move to Montana.  Put dead animal heads up on his walls and send all of his mail using words he cut out of magazines._

_“You sure about that?” the voice asked, sounding somewhere between dubious and amused, had the effect of thoroughly pissing Tony off, because, sure, he was on his hands and knees in a pile of garbage and vomit and his sometimes-ex was a mouth-breathing douche, but he was still Tony Stark, and even on his worst day, he wasn’t going to be condescended to by Detective Donut here._

_“Never better.  Why?” Tony asked with all the contempt he could muster, then vomited up whatever else was left in his stomach all over the bad poly blend and faux leather workboots.  Probably an improvement, he had time to think, then promptly slumped forward and passed the blessed fuck out._

_Tony’s first thought when he blinked his eyes open was that he was wet.  His second thought was that we was cold.  His third thought was something along the lines of, “What the fuck are you doing to me?!?” which he might have shouted as someone—Sergeant Bacon, asshat, fuckwad, God-dammit all to hell—pulled him upright as he sputtered and tried to hold up his arms to shield his eyes from the jets of water._

_He was sitting slumped against the wall in the bottom of a plastic basin under a shower nozzle that was now dripping beads of water onto the top of his head, where they slunk down the side of his face.  His feet were bare and curled halfway underneath him next to a metal drain.  His clothes were sticking to his skin, though, brightside, he didn’t smell like garbage or vomit, so there was that.  Tony tugged at his shirt, making it bubble for a moment before it squelched back wetly against his skin._

_“You can yell at me all you want,” the man said as he walked away, leaving Tony sitting there, staring in disbelief.   How was this happening to him?_

_His own personal Sheriff Teasle wannabe went to lean over a large, white plastic sink, spraying something with the faucet nozzle.  His shoes, Tony figured, looking the man over.  He was barefoot, too, Tony noticed.  Two socks, one white, one gray, were slung over the edge of the sink.   He was in a uniform, a dark navy one-piece, with a wide leather belt with several pouches bulging out wrapped around his waist.  A large ring of keys was clipped to one of the belt loops, and a bulky, black flashlight hung from another.  A janitor.  Oh, good fucking night.  Clean-up, Aisle Tony, he thought, with a heady sense of relief.  No way some toilet jockey was going to go hauling off to Howard Stark with this.  “No one here to hear you.”_

_“Is this where you tell me to squeal like a pig?” Tony asked, shifting out from under the shower and wiping a hand over his face to get the water out of his eyes.  Holy hell, he was soaked.  “What the fuck did you do to me?  Where the hell am I?”  He looked around, trying to get his bearings.  He was in some kind of plastic-walled box, with various nozzles and spouts sticking out.  Above his head, just under his showerhead nemesis from a moment ago, big, bold letters spelled out DECONTAMINATION, with a graphic below it picturing how to wash out your eyes and mouth.  “You put me in a decontamination shower,” Tony said, testing the words out while his mind tried to wrap itself around the turn of events.  “You. Put. Me. In. A. Fucking. Decontamination. Shower.”_

_“You threw up all over me and passed out,” the janitor told him.  “Couldn’t get you to respond for a bit.  Kinda worried me, there.  Was going to call it in, but you---you threw my radio and said no hospital because some kind of tie would take a picture.”_

_“You put me in a decontamination shower,” Tony repeated, because that was the only thing his mind seemed capable of focusing on at the moment.  “In the—oh, God, squirms or stinks?  Fucking hell.”_

_“Squirms or stinks?  Oh, ha, right.  Chemistry, not biology,” the janitor said.  “You should drink some water,” the janitor suggested.  Tony watched him turn off the sink and turn one boot, then the other, upside down, letting the water drain out of them._

_“If you spray me again, I’ll find something in here that will make last year’s sodium drop look like Mentos in a Coke bottle,” Tony warned._

_“I believe that you just might,” the janitor agreed with a small huff of a laugh.  “Not going to spray you again.  Promise.  Here, drink this,” the janitor offered, bending down to reach into a small, yellowish workbag next to his bare feet.  Huh, Janitor Guy had nice form, Tony thought distantly, then everything else left his head except the thought that ‘nice form’ didn’t begin to do justice to the actual, living god in human form who was currently holding out a bottle of water towards Tony with an expectant look._

_Well, feel free to shove me in a shower of whatever kind you want anytime, Tony thought to himself, throwing a look at the man and then following it up with a fit of coughing. Tony reached out and stumbled forward to take the bottle, tripping over the lip of the shower as he did.  Maintenance God grabbed his arm, steadying him.  Tony grabbed for the bottle, unscrewed the cap and started chugging, then found himself spewing that out in watery bursts onto Hot Janitor’s shirtfront._

_And people—Rhodey--had the audacity to suggest he didn’t know how to make a good impression._

_“Whoa, there.  Little sips, okay?  Drink, then breathe.  Not at the same time.  And here,” Hot Janitor continued, shoving a plastic baggie with a piece of white bread folded up inside it towards the center of Tony’s chest.  Tony reached up and took it automatically, then stared at the thing in momentary confusion.  “It’s just jelly on there.  No peanut butter or anything.  Get something in you though, when you think your stomach’s ready.  There are some lab coats around here that the students use, and some of the professors keep a change of clothes in their offices in case they get snowed in.  Give me a second, and I’ll find you something dry to put on.  Oh, I’m Steve, by the way, Steve Rogers,” he said, holding out a hand._

_Tony took the hand automatically, shaking it up and down slowly.  “Tony.  Uh, Tony.”_

_“There’s a Wash-and-Fold down off Mass Ave, if you want to get those cleaned up,” Steve said, nodding down at where Tony was still diligently shaking his hand, or more sort of holding it now, which was awesome because they’d hit showering together and hand-holding already, so, really, except for the barfing and passing out, this was going so well.   Tony looked up at the offending showerhead and silently beseeched it to just drown him already.  “I got some quarters.  Keep ‘em for the snack machine.  It isn’t far.  I can walk you there, if you want.”_

_It was on the tip of Tony’s tongue to point out that he was never, ever going to wear these clothes again, but he stopped himself.   Nighttime laundry adventure with the ridiculously gorgeous janitorial professional sounded far better than cab home alone to face censorious roommate who would probably be waiting up for him. “Sure.  Thanks. That would be great.”_

_“Ah, here,” Steve said quickly, running a hand through his hair like he was nervous.  “Why don’t you put this on for now, and I’ll find you something to change into?”  He was holding out a bulky, brown jacket with pockets on the front and orange lining that defined the term hideous, but it had a nametag pinned on the front that said ‘S. Rogers,’ in black type.  Tony was suddenly aware that he was very wet and very cold.  Did they really have to keep the chem lab cold enough to hang meat in?  Jesus, he thought with a shiver. He grabbed the jacket and shoved his hands into the sleeves, then had to push them up to keep them from flopping over his hands, making him look even more ridiculous.  Tony hopped up on the counter next to the sink with a squelch of wet pants and hugged the jacket around him._

_“You’ll feel better if you eat a bit,” Steve urged, nodding at his hand.  Tony looked down and realized that he still had the plastic baggie with the half sandwich clutched in one hand, and since he wasn’t quite sure how to say he’d rather gnaw the dried granola off the desks in the Philosophy department, he opened it up and took a large bite._

_Steve smiled, like he was pleased at that, so Tony took another bite.  “Izgud,” Tony mumbled as he chewed.  It was horrible, but what the hell?  Everything was going to be vomit-flavored anyway until he found a jug of Listerine._

_“I’ll be right back.  Don’t go anywhere, okay, Tony?” Steve told him.  “Oh.  Huh.  You’re shaking,” Steve observed with a frown.  The most adorable furrow Tony had ever seen appeared in the middle of Steve’s brow.  “Here…uh, is this…uh, this okay?” Steve asked, his hands hovering on either side of Tony’s arms, like he was waiting for permission.   Tony looked up at him.  Oh.  He was waiting for permission._

_Tony found himself nodding, mouth going suddenly dry as Steve started rubbing vigorously at Tony’s arms to warm him.  Steve’s eyes flashed to his, blue and brilliant.  The blue of fire, Tony thought to himself, as Steve’s gaze darted away, flicking here and there and never quite back to Tony.  “That better?” Steve asked after awhile._

_“Much,” Tony answered honestly.  “Don’t be gone long.  Might need you to hold my hair again.  Hey, uh-uh.  Leave your shoes here,” Tony said, waving his hand with the sandwich in it in the general direction of where Steve was reaching for his wet boots._

_“Why?” Steve asked, staring in confusion between Tony and his boots and the rest of the room, like he’d missed some vital piece of a puzzle._

_“Can’t ditch me that way,” Tony said.  “I don’t have quarters.”_

_“I’m not going to leave you, Tony,” Steve said with a shake of his head, but he brought the wet shoes over and sat them down on the floor underneath where Tony’s feet dangled from the countertop._


	3. Chapter 3

By the time he made it to the front of Steve’s building, Tony’s annoyance with the whole situation had come back full force.  This section of Brooklyn wasn’t quite the utter shithole of some place like Brownsville, but it left a lot to be desired.  The building itself, a four-floor walk-up with a brown brick façade, was next door to something called Club B62, a “club for all,” or so the sign outside proclaimed, whatever the hell that meant.  A bright orange sandwich board hung next to a large, green rolling dumpster, boasting “party rooms available.”  On one of the windows, peeling, yellow stenciled-on letters warned patrons not to sit on the railings outside the entrance. 

How charming.

Tony noticed he kept getting long, considering looks from various employees manning the mostly empty streetfront shops and restaurants, like they were trying to figure out if Tony Stark was really walking down the street in front of their Chinese Takeout/Taco Bar.  Don’t worry, Zhang Yi Miguel, you are not alone in wondering what the hell is going on, Tony thought with a slight shake of his head.  Down the rabbit hole.

He could still get a courier or process server to do this.  Someone from the lawyer’s office who they trusted to be discreet.  Except he’d told Pepper he would do it, that was no big deal, a good exercise in putting the past behind him where it belonged.  Backing out now would make this mean something more than it should, which was a line he couldn’t let himself cross.  It had the feeling of an admission to it, one he didn’t want to make, even to Pepper, who wouldn’t judge him for it.   Whatever justifications he managed to give himself—that he was too busy, the work he was doing too important—truths, as far as they went, they didn’t quite go far enough to erase the implication needling in the back of his head. 

He didn’t want to see Steve again. 

Maybe he needed to. He’d grant the universe that much.  That hadn’t been entirely all bluster with Pepper. There was some deep, Oprah-level self-diagnosis happening there.  This didn’t feel like one of any twelve steps to moving on, though.  This had all the trappings of opening some wound that was still just barely held together.  Self-dissolving stitches, he thought. That’s what’s happening.  Everything he’d so carefully stitched together felt like it was being pulled apart from inside and there was nothing he could do about it but pull harder.

The problem was, however twisted things had gotten between him and Steve, God knows he’d never quite managed _indifference_.  Whatever Steve’s reaction to this, from best case, where he just signed the papers, to worst, where they fought it out behind their lawyers and all over the tabloids, there was no scenario where Tony didn’t have to absorb that reaction, deal with it, open something up that had taken him years to finally lock away.  Call it cowardice, and maybe that’s what it was, but damn, if he didn’t want to do that. 

This, this whole thing with Steve, it was supposed to be _over_ , and there had been too many days where only the knowledge that it was over had allowed him to get up in the morning.  It was like he’d kept his end of the bargain, made good.  Hell, made better than good on everything his old man had done, managed friends and a social life, and the universe, merciless bitch that she was, had broken some kind of promise to him that he wouldn’t have to deal with this again.  God knew, he was doing his part not to risk feeling the way Steve had made him feel again.  Hell, there was proof of that on video if anyone felt like looking, and then, as if that wasn’t penance enough for his youthful stupidity, he got a do-over of the only part of his life that came close to breaking him. 

A voice that sounded a lot like Pepper’s echoed in his head, telling him this came dangerously close to sounding like a desperate need for closure.

He stopped in front of the steps up to the double doors at the entrance to Steve’s building.  His shoes were wet from sloshing through the brown melt, and the bottoms of his pants’ legs were spattered with a spray of the stuff, but he was here.  He didn’t want to be here, but he was, if for no other reason than that Steve didn’t get to have that kind of power over him, not now, anyway.  Not anymore. 

Tony looked down and idly scraped his shoe against the lip of the bottom step, trying, in vain, as it turned out, to get some of the mud off.  Because showing up with divorce papers for the second time was one thing.  Slinging literal mud all over the place was just downright rude, he supposed.  Jarvis would have been so proud.  He looked up at the building’s worn brick front, and wondered again, what Steve had done with the money.  He could have found out, of course.  But, leaving Pandora’s Box of Misspent Youth permanently closed seemed the far better part of valor, even if he never could quite get it to shut as tightly as he wanted. 

Blown it, most likely, he supposed.   Easier to do than you’d think, particularly when you’ve never had it.  Whittled away at it until he was back where he’d started, something of a fitting end, all in all, Tony thought with a mental shrug.  Bet that stung.   The thought that he hoped it did slashed across his mind before he could stop it.  He’d left the high road behind around the time the balding, frail-fingered trust attorney had told him that he might still technically be married.  It wasn’t a part of himself he was proud of, admittedly.  But, he wasn’t going to deny that there was something satisfying about a good, old-fashioned, karma’s-a-bitch, kick in the proverbial teeth kind of comeuppance.  

“Tony?” a shocked voice from behind him called out.  There’s that moment, right before you jump off the high-dive, when your stomach clenches and your heart pounds, and your head says do it while your hindbrain pleads with you to do anything but, and that had nothing on this, but it was what his mind conjured up as he turned slowly to face Steve.  “Tony?  Is that really--Wha—what are you—what are you doing here?”

Even after all these years, Steve could take his breath away.  He was older, of course.  The lines of his jaw were sharper, the angles a bit more pronounced.  His hair was darker than Tony remembered and cut short, just falling over his forehead enough to hide the scar Tony knew was there at the curve of his hairline where Mike O’Malley had gotten him with the corner of a park bench when Steve was thirteen and trying to right the wrongs of the world one Mike O’Malley at a time.  His eyes, though.  You think you won’t forget, but then your mind lets you, needs to let you, Tony supposed with a dull sort of pang spreading wide in his chest.  Wide and blue, like fire that takes away all the air, he remembered with a start.  He’d thought that, once before, when they first met.  Damned poetic nonsense from the bottom of a bottle, is what that was, but the thought lingered.

Steve was looking him up and down, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, making his forehead scrunch.  He shifted the brown paper bag he was holding to his other arm, and Tony noticed he was wearing a faded gray uniform with the name of a pharmaceutical company emblazoned over the left shirt pocket.  God, if a car drove by and splashed them with garbage-riddled mud right now, it really would just complete the whole, twisted relationship redux thing he had going. Steve glanced past Tony’s shoulder, as if he expected some evidence to appear to explain Tony’s presence in front of his building, then looked back at Tony again, brow drawn together in obvious confusion. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, voice almost soft, picking at the words carefully.  That was enough to snap Tony out of his daze, because damn if Steve got to be concerned about him at this point. 

“Peachy,” Tony spat out.  “That is, assuming you’ve decided to stop being a dick about all this.”  That…was not quite the cajoling, bygones-be-bygones kind of start he’d planned to have, he thought with an inward sigh, but it seemed all he was capable of at the moment.

“About, ah…what?” Steve stuttered, his head snapping back at bit at that. 

“Oh, don’t even--Look, much as it pains me that Alec Baldwin gets to hold both the #1 and #2 slots on the TMZ celebrity street fight list, can we take this circle-jerk inside?”  Tony demanded flatly, gesturing towards the building. 

“Suuuuure,” Steve replied, eyes narrowing.  “Come on up.  It’s not much, but,” he finished after a pause, giving Tony a slight shrug of his shoulders.  He jerked his head in the direction of the building and started up the steps, giving Tony what he would swear was a curious look as he passed. 

Steve pushed open one of the front doors and held it for Tony to enter.  The small, dim entryway was lined with a bank of mailboxes for each apartment and a corkboard message area with a singular flyer posted offering a sure-fire way to earn money from home with two of the small, paper stubs torn off.  “Watch your step,” Steve warned, nodding at a patch of floor where the tile was in partial chunks.  He shifted the paper bag in his hands again, and started up the steps, one hand on the worn, wooden railing as he went.  Neither of them spoke as Tony followed Steve’s heavy steps up the stairs to the fourth floor, but silence was laden with a heavy expectation that they were going to have to speak.   After all these years. 

He tried to think back to the last thing he’d said to Steve, but it was blurred by too many years of trying not to think of it.  He’d like to think it had been biting, caustic, something to turn around dramatically and slam the door on, brilliantly final words that could prop up the shred of dignity he’d been able to muster at that point.  He suspected it was none of those, and that was why he couldn’t quite muster the memory. 

He’d been in their apartment, surrounded by all the brand new things Steve had gone binge-shopping to buy with his father’s money, wanting so very desperately for Steve to deny it, but, of course, Steve had owned up to it.  He’d give him credit for that, at least, though all the proof had been right there in front of him.   He remembered what Steve said to him though.  Take care of yourself, Tony.  How fucking flippant.  Take care of yourself?  How, he’d wanted to shout.  How was he supposed to do that, when everything was falling apart around him?  But that was then, and this was a very different kind of now. 

Steve stopped in front of a door where someone had written 4B in the center using what looked like a black sharpie.  There was a blue carpet mat outside the door, and Tony’s mind flashed to the truly obnoxious welcome mat Steve had gotten for their crappy Boston apartment, with its picture of a cheerful beaver gnawing on a branch proclaiming “I’ve got beaver fever,” which Steve had found hysterical because the MIT mascot was, of course, nature’s industrious engineer.  He’d gotten it from the campus store, probably spent half their grocery budget on the damn thing, then been caught between giggles and red-faced embarrassment over it.  Honestly, sometimes, the guy had the sense of humor of a 12-year old.  Tony had complained and mocked and threatened and secretly loved everything about it, he remembered, absently twisting the Brass Rat that signified an MIT grad on his finger. 

This one, though, so plain and simple.  Functional, Tony’s mind supplied.  He didn’t like it, and he didn’t like that he didn’t like it. 

Still. He didn’t like it. 

“Your welcome mat isn’t particularly welcoming,” Tony observed mildly, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth a bit as he said it. It was a shit thing to say, and he knew it.  He hadn’t really meant to say anything, and certainly not about the stupid welcome mat. Who cared? Can’t a mat just be a fucking mat and not a God-damned statement about life? 

Steve had dug into his jacket pocket for a ring of keys, fumbling them a bit as he tried to slide them into the lock.  He grimaced, then bent and set the bag down in front of the door.

“Huh?” Steve asked, looking over at him in startle, then down at the mat like he wasn’t sure what Tony was talking about.  “Oh, yeah,” he continued with a slight huff that wasn’t really a laugh.  “I had a different one.  With, ah, daisies?  I think it was.  Some kind of flower anyway.  Nat got it for me.  Someone took it, though,” he shrugged.   

Steve jostled the key a bit more in the lock, then released his hand, flexing the fingers wide for a moment before twisting it again. Nerve damage.  Tony had forgotten. Well, not forgotten.  More like, not wanted to think about for a long time.  IED.  Same one that had taken Barnes’ arm.  Not that he’d hacked military medical records or anything. 

That would have been wrong.  Huge invasion of privacy.  Probably illegal.  Definitely not something worth mentioning, that was for sure. 

The door lock finally caught, and Steve nudged the door open with his shoulder where it looked like it didn’t quite fit the frame correctly, which seemed to be a familiar enough routine that Steve didn’t even make a face at it. 

“Come on in,” Steve called out as he picked up the bag and moved to one side so Tony could step in.  The studio was small and cramped, with one single-paned window in what served as the kitchen that gave a view of the bricks from the building next door.   A brown, faux-suede loveseat sat against one wall, and a twin bed was pushed against another, a low, rectangular wooden table between them in what seemed to pass for a bedroom and living area.  There was a stack of clothes in the corner, everything folded carefully into piles of pants, shirts and sweaters.  A shirt and two pairs of socks were drying over the dark, silver coils of the radiator at the foot of the bed.  A door off to one side led to what Tony assumed was the sumptuous en suite. 

Two mismatched wooden shelves dominated the far wall, filled with stacks of books, an odd assortment of small, glass vases and three of the large, cardboard filing boxes.  There were a few framed photos scattered around the books, and more, free of their frames, propped up against various stacks here and there in what probably should’ve looked haphazard, but Tony could see there was something of a pattern to it, making it look more pleasing to the eye than it should.  

His eyes skated over the photos of their own accord, settling on the one of Steve’s mom at the beach, a rail-thin, three-year old, tow-headed Steve in her arms.  It was faded to sepia tones now, but he recognized it, recognized her.  The thought of flowers, bright against the snow-covered ground hit him with physical force, so clear and present, the way each breath was so cold it hurt, and Steve’s hand curled so tightly around his that Tony thought he could feel the bones rubbing together through the skin, but he wouldn’t have let go for anything.  It had been the first time in Tony’s life that adulthood felt like a burden instead of a privilege. 

There weren’t any photos of him there, of course, though he spotted a few of Barnes, one that looked to be a group of them leaning against the hood of a Hum-Vee in some patch of sand and rock, holding an Army flag between them, and another set of pictures with Barnes, Nat, Steve, Thor and a man with light brown, closely shaved hair all posing for a wedding photo, smiling politely with a second one next to it where they seemed to be posing like something out of Charlie’s Angels, goofily serious expressions and fingers for guns aiming haphazardly. 

“Barnes and Nat finally tied the knot, huh?” Tony asked, nodding in the direction of the shelves.

“Oh, yeah.  Last year.  Finally.  Up at Clint’s—ah, that’s Clint in the photo, there.  Army buddy.  Up at Clint’s parent’s farm.  Bucky and Nat, they got a place up in Carroll Gardens, now,” Steve told him.

Tony grunted in response.  “Nat could’ve done better,” he said with a shrug, but he kept his voice light.  He’d always liked Natasha.  Smart, scarily fierce sometimes, but she’d always been nice to Tony, and managed to get Barnes to play nice.  Hell, he’d even liked Barnes well enough, eventually.  They’d gone round and round on the who-loves-Steve-best carousel of fun for a few months before finally settling on the profoundly world-altering view that maybe Steve had enough love for both of them.

“That’s what Bucky keeps saying,” Steve replied, something like an answering smile trying to find a place before it disappeared.   “Ah, here.  You can—hang on,” Steve said.  He put the bag down on the kitchen counter, which seemed to double as a bar, Tony noted, since there were two stools pulled up to it, and walked quickly over to move things around on the loveseat, dropping a backpack next to the twin bed and tossing a cloth bag cinched shut with a knot of cord that must be filled with dirty clothes next to the door, making a place for Tony to sit.  “Sorry it’s such a—“

“I’ll stand,” Tony said, watching Steve straighten in place, like the sudden flurry of easy motion that had been sustaining him had been turned off.  He looked over at Tony, finally, really looked.  Whatever surprise or maybe embarrassment that had sparked the initial cordiality seeming to leak out of him.  Tony could practically hear Steve’s teeth grinding together from where he stood. 

“Fine,” Steve replied tightly.  “I take it this isn’t a social call.  What do you want, Tony?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”  Tony asked.  “Did Barnes and the others think I was just going to throw my hands up in the air when they chased Pepper off?”

“Chased…pepper?” Steve began, brow knitting together in obvious confusion.  “What does that even mean?”

“Pepper Potts.  My assistant. She’s been here like three times, and your friends—you know what? Forget it. Doesn’t matter.  Okay, short version?”  Tony started, taking a deep breath.  “Short version is there was a minor, possible screw up with the divorce papers.  Scrivener’s error-type thing.  No big deal.  Except, I’m setting up this trust, and the lawyers looking over the asset transfer stuff say that we need to fix it, so, since your friends browbeat my assistant, who didn’t deserve that, by the way, I’m here to tell you that you need to sign some papers.  Same papers you already signed.  Lawyers are anal bastards and need to make sure every ‘I’ is dotted and ‘T’ crossed, that kind of thing.  You can make it a big deal, if you really want to try me.  Wouldn’t recommend it.  I think you know that I can bury you in lawyers for years, if it comes down to that.  I’d rather it not, but…your call.”

Steve stared at him a long, pregnant moment, then walked back over to the kitchen counter and, rather inexplicably, started emptying the paper bag of what turned out to be groceries.  Cans of peas and beans, a loaf of bread, a long, thin package of pasta, a jar of sauce, all placed on the counter with varying degrees of slamming. 

“You’re here with divorce papers.  Again.  That’s…I don’t know what that is,” Steve said, bracing his hands against the counter top, his back still to Tony.  He spun around abruptly, picked up the folder and stalked over to where Tony stood next to the loveseat.  Tony had the absurd urge to sit down, because Steve was pushing into his space like he didn’t know that there was supposed to be a personal bubble.   Steve opened the folder between them, holding it in one hand as he leafed through it, much as Tony had done in the car.  “I just sign, right?” Steve asked in a rush, voice tight and brittle and _angry_ , which made no sense, unless he was pissed about Tony threatening to lawyer him to death.  “Sign here, and we’re done? That’s it?”

“Uh,” Tony began articulately, because he had been prepared for a lot of things, but not, as it turned out, for Steve to simply give in.  “You have to have them notarized,” Tony said, feeling suddenly stupid.

“I take it you don’t have a notary lurking around my apartment building,” Steve offered into the silence that followed. 

“No,” Tony admitted with a slight wince.  In retrospect, he probably should have brought one with him, but showing up here with a stranger in tow to watch the drama and literally give it an official stamp was top of the list of things that just were not happening.  “You can come down to the Tower.  Or, my lawyer’s office.  Card’s in the file.  Bank.  Whatever.  Here,” he said, sliding the manila folder out from where it was tucked under his arm.  Steve grabbed it out of his hand before he could offer it, then turned and walked back to the kitchen, dropping the folder on the counter next to a can of corn.  “Everything’s in there.  You just sign.  Sign and we’re done,” Tony finished flatly, repeating Steve’s words back to him. 

His voice sounded funny, even to his own ears.  Tinny and hollow, in a way it hadn’t sounded for a very long time.  Had he said that before?  The last time?  He’d gone over to what had been their apartment with the papers, full of pain trying its damnedest to be anger, and Steve had been unpacking a sound bar for the new TV, trying to scoop up the flecks of white Styrofoam wafting all over the place. 

“That it, then?” Steve asked in a clipped tone.  “That all I need to do?  Fine.  Anything else?”

“No,” Tony replied dully, momentarily thrown off-kilter. He couldn’t quite explain the sensation, except that everything about this felt off somehow, like he was slowly sliding down some hill and couldn’t quite see the bottom.

“Great.  Then we’re done here, right?” Steve asked, though it wasn’t a question, not really.  He dropped the folder on the coffee table and walked back to the kitchen, starting to put the groceries in their places, neat rows and stacks of cans that mimicked the piles of folded clothes.  “Guess you can find your way out.”

“Yeah.  I—“ Tony began, then stopped and cleared his throat.  “Steve,” he said, not quite sure what he meant to say, but ending up on that.  “Thanks for…you know.”

“Not being a dick about it?”  Steve filled in, eyebrows raised in challenge for a moment before he shook his head and turned around to face Tony.  “Apologize to your assistant for me.  They didn’t mean—I’ll talk to them.”

“Forget it,” Tony heard himself say, waving a hand through the air.  “That’s nothing compared to what the Board dishes out.  She’s used to deflecting for me.  Look, Steve….this…I really am sorry about it.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said after a moment of staring at the row of cans labeled baked beans before shutting the cabinet door.  “Me, too.”

“I’ll just—“ Tony started, when the door opened and hit him in the ass, sending him stumbling forward. 

“Steve-o, you are never going to—oh, shit, no, you have got to be kidding me,” Barnes bit out, standing in the doorway, gaping at Tony like the proverbial fishwife. 

“Buck, don’t.  It’s fine.  Tony was just leaving,” Steve explained.

“What’s he even doing here, Steve?  Those damn papers?  What the hell does he want from you now?” Barnes demanded as he shoved past Tony into the room.  “Come to get your pound of flesh, too?”

“Enough, Buck.  Come on,” Steve interjected quickly.  “It’s fine.  It’s nothing.  Don’t worry about it.”

“What is—whoa,” Barnes cut off as he picked up the folder from where Steve had dropped it on the coffee table.  “You’re kidding, right?  Seriously?  This is for real?”

“There was a mix-up. Before,” Tony said tightly.  “Filing error kind of a thing.  It isn’t a big deal.  Steve just needs to sign these, and we’re done.  We don’t have to even see each other again.  Hell, I wouldn’t even be here if you and the Marx Brothers hadn’t been such asshats to my assistant.”

“Steve isn’t signing shit,” Barnes objected, tossing the folder back on the table and making the papers scatter onto the floor.  “Steve.  You aren’t seriously going to just do what Richie Rich here wants, are you?  At least let Matt look these over.  Oh, stop, you know what I mean,” Barnes cut in when Steve started to say something. 

“Matt?” Tony questioned.  Who the hell was Matt?  Not that it was his business.  But, who the hell was Matt?

“He’s a lawyer.  Does some work pro bono for the VA,” Steve explained. 

“Great. Fine.  Have your lawyer give them the once-over.  They’re the same damn things as before, Steve, so don’t start playing the martyr now,” Tony ground out.  “Look, forget it. Sign ‘em, don’t sign ‘em, whatever.  I’m done.”

“Wonders will never cease,” Barnes muttered, eyeing him. 

“The righteous indignation act is a tad overblown,” Tony pointed out, deliberately turning his back on Barnes as he reached for the door.  “You can save it for the courtroom, if that’s the way you want to go, but you aren’t getting a God-damned cent out of me.  You think your life sucks now?  Try me,” he tossed over his shoulder.  “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Oh, I think we know exactly what you’re capable of,” Barnes retorted.  “Get the fuck out of here.”

“That’s enough,” Steve’s voice snapped like a whip-crack through the room.  “Tony,” Steve called out, walking towards him and brushing past Barnes with a hard, pointed look.  “Let’s go.”

Tony didn’t need to be told twice, though he couldn’t resist shooting Barnes an annoyed look, which only garnered an eye roll from the other man.  Steve pounded down the steps in front of him much faster than he’d gone up them, Tony on his heels.  They made it to the building’s foyer with its peeling paint and water-stained ceiling over the cracked-tile falling hazard before Steve slowed down, ducking his head and putting his hands on his hips with a grimace. 

“Sorry about Bucky,” Steve offered after a pause, darting a quick look in Tony’s direction.  “I’ll get the papers done,” he promised, pushing open the building’s door as he did. 

“Thanks.  I mean it.  I really don’t want this to be, you know, a thing,” Tony admitted, still rooted to the spot at the bottom of the steps where he’d come to a halt.  He could feel the cold air whipping in through the door, watched it ruffle Steve’s hair where he stood braced against the doorframe.  He finally got his leaden legs to move, shuffling forward until he was even with Steve.  Everything about this felt off.  He was supposed to leave in triumph or angry resolve, not some vague sense that…that what?  That he’d hurt Steve somehow, which, hell, should feel good. Satisfying.  The words ‘hollow victory’ rang through his head in Pepper’s voice like some inner angel.  He hadn’t known a hollow victory meant you walked away feeling empty when you got everything you wanted.  This wasn’t how it was supposed to work.

“Take care of yourself, Tony,” Steve breathed out as he passed.  Tony wondered if it was deliberate, to needle at him, or just something Steve had a habit of saying.  His gaze snapped up, and he could see Steve’s throat working around the words, his eyes staring out at the street where a taxi honked its horn for a car trying to parallel park to hurry. 

“I always do,” Tony replied. 

“No you don’t,” Steve countered, sounding tired instead of antagonistic.  It was on the tip of Tony’s tongue to protest, because, of course, that wasn’t true.  He took care of himself just fine, but what did it matter?  It was over.  This whole, sordid mess was over.  He’d gotten what he came for, after all.  He walked down the front steps and onto the sidewalk, looking up long enough to watch the door swing shut with a bang.  Closure, Tony thought.  Probably a little more literal than Oprah had meant it, but still. 

By the time he made his car, his hands were numb with cold, and there were flecks of barely-formed ice in his hair and melting along the shoulders of his coat.  He turned the car on and pushed the temperature up as far as it would go, then pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted Pepper with a simple ‘Done,’ trusting that she’d know what he meant. 

He wasn’t sure if he wanted the call he knew he needed to make, or what he would even say if he did.  Punching the familiar icon on his contacts list, Tony waited while it rang, watching the dwindling number of passersby walk across the small alleyway entrance as they made their way up and down the street. 

“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” Rhodey said by way of greeting.  “Okay, that’s a bald-faced lie.  The answer is probably yes, but with some serious caveats and reservations, which I’m sure you’ll manage to overcome, so why even bother?  What’s up, Tones?”

“Rhodey, darling, how are you enjoying your latest present?  And by ‘enjoying’ I mean, how many things have you blown up without adult supervision?” Tony asked, grinning.  He could feel something deep inside him uncoil at the familiar timbre of Rhodey’s voice, the usual banter, the comfort of it all wrapping itself around him.

“Oh, and in this scenario, you’re the adult?  Fox, meet henhouse,” Rhodey retorted, a smile warming his voice.  “What’s up?  Haven’t heard from you since the last ‘training exercise’ fiasco, which, by the way, thanks ever so much for the cookie bouquet.  Those little broken edible missiles you sent were not at all inappropriate.”

“Hey, stop buying Hammer tech if you don’t want creative commentary via the custom dessert delivery industry,” Tony protested.  “So.  Uh, something came up.  Just thought you should know about it.  Nothing big.  Just.  Some stuff.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound at all ominous.  Do tell,” Rhodey coaxed.

“Funny thing.  It turns out I might still be married to Steve.  Rogers. Steve Rogers. From MIT.  Just a paperwork snafu.  But, so.  Yeah.  I went to see him today.  He lives in Brooklyn now. Real shithole.  Almost as bad as our Boston place,” Tony stammered, sucking in a breath.  “He’s going to sign the paperwork again.  No problems.  It’ll all be over in a few days.  Just—you know. Thought you should know.”

The phone was silent long enough that Tony pulled it away from his ear to check the screen and make sure the phone call time was still ticking upwards.  “Rhodey?  You there?” Tony ventured.

“You need me to kick his ass?  I will literally go to Brooklyn and kick his ass.  He’s Army, right?  I’ve got jets, Tony. I got this,” Rhodey offered, voice gruff and thick with something that made Tony feel warmer than the car heater was managing.  “He’s had it coming for years, man.  I’m just saying.”

“No, no,” Tony huffed out around a laugh.  “He was…actually, he was pretty nice about it, all things considered.  I mean, Barnes showed up, and he was an ass, but what’s new there?  Steve was…I don’t know, Rhodey.  It was weird.  Seeing him again, I mean.”

“Weird, like ‘Wow, I’m so glad I got away from this guy, lucky me,’ weird, or weird like, ‘Wow, I’m a glutton for punishment and still have a stuffed toy in my desk drawer that I’m disturbingly attached to and now I kind of want to hug it,’ kind of weird?” Rhodey questioned pointedly.

“Uh, I’ll take Things We Are Never Supposed to Mention for $200, Alex. Do we need to talk about Spring Break again?” Tony accused lightly, scrubbing a hand over his face.  “Let’s go with somewhere in between.  Weird like, ‘Wow, why am I bothered that was so easy’ kind of weird,” Tony admitted after a moment.

“Maybe he grew a conscience.  Anything’s possible. Even in the Army,” Rhodey replied with the natural disdain held by Air Force jocks for what Rhodey happily referred to as the branch filled with those who Aren’t Ready for the Marines Yet.  “You need me to come over?  I’m coming over.”

“Nah. Really.   I’m good,” Tony replied, wincing at how it sounded.

“Uh-huh.  Gonna go look longingly at Marvin for awhile and wash it down with some Glenlivet?  Yeah, no. I’m in D.C.  I can be there in a couple of hours,” Rhodey announced.  “We’ll talk it out.  Then I’ll decide if I’m gonna to kick your maybe-still-husband’s ass or not.”

_“I’m gonna kick your boyfriend’s ass,” Rhodey announced as he pulled one of the chairs out from the table, twisted it around in his hands and sat down with his arms wrapped around the wooden slats of the back._

_The food court wasn’t particularly busy on a Friday afternoon when lots of students had already started their weekends, and most of the tables were empty at this point. God knows, Tony wouldn’t be caught dead here under normal circumstances._

_Un-normal circumstances was currently tugging a full garbage bag out of one of the cans and stuffing it into the larger one on his cart, busy not calling Tony despite their evening of showering and laundry bonding._

_“Ty’s not my boyfriend,” Tony replied absently, taking a quick sip from the cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of him.  It was lukewarm now, which gave him some idea of how long he’d been sitting here watching Steve clean up tables, sweep up trash and generally do his job while not paying a bit of attention to Tony._

_Un. Acceptable._

_“Can’t believe he let you wander around campus that time of night in that condition. You should’ve called me, man,” Rhodey protested, slapping Tony on the back.  “What the hell were you thinking showing up at a place like that anyway?”_

_“That there would be booze, and Ty would suck me off,” Tony replied absently.  Why hadn’t Steve called?  It had been two days.   Two whole days of staring at his phone, willing it to ring, and two calls to Rhodey just to make sure the damn thing worked._

_“Gross, man.  TMI.  Learn the line,” Rhodey said with a grimace of distaste.  Tony shrugged.  “So,” Rhodey started. “That’s Hot Janitor Guy, I take it?” he asked, nodding a bit in Steve’s direction._

_“Steve,” Tony corrected.  “If you say that to his face, I’m changing your ringtone to Vanilla Ice.  Forever.”_

_“One time, Tony.  I played that song one time.  It had a catchy—you know what?  Forget it,” Rhodey argued.  “So, you gonna stare all day or go ask Steve,” Rhodey emphasized, drawing out the name, “To please call you so you’ll stop moping. Seriously, dude. This is sad.  This is sitting in the food court—the food court, man—on a Friday kind of sad.   I’m gonna go ask him.  Do you like Tony?  Check yes or no.  Simple.  Done.”_

_“Ice, Ice Baby,” Tony muttered._

_“That’s playing dirty, Stark,” Rhodey objected, shaking his head in mock indignation._

_“I’m going to talk to him.  I’m just…waiting for the right moment,” Tony replied weakly.  Steve was clearly finishing up, wheeling his maintenance cart towards the doors at the front of the building, one wheel squeaking and rattling as he went.  No one noticed.  No one even looked, not the students huddled around an Apple laptop, worshipping it like lemmings, not even the girl who handed Steve her tray to dump in the garbage can.  How many times in his life had Tony wanted to be invisible?  To just disappear and have no one know him, no one expect anything from him?  That had seemed like such a heady, freeing thing, but maybe it was just a different kind of prison, he thought as he watched Steve wait patiently with his cart for a group of students to exit before pushing it out the doors and down the ramp._

_“Your right moment is leaving,” Rhodey pointed out._

_“I’m going.  This is me, going,” Tony said with a flash of annoyance as he got up from the table.  He tossed his cup in the garbage, then went back and shoved his chair under the table, wiping the tabletop off with a napkin from the dispenser in the center of the table.  “Shut up.”_

_“Not saying a word, not a word,” Rhodey said, holding his hands out in front of him.  “Just enjoying the view, man.”_

_By the time Tony made it outside, Steve was far enough ahead of him that he had to jog to catch up, which had the lovely side-effect of leaving him wheezing and breathless like an old man at the shuffleboard courts.  “Hey,” Tony coughed out when he finally came along side Steve.  He fully intended to say something suave and nonchalant.  Play it cool.  Really.  That was one-hundred percent his plan._

_“You didn’t call me,” Tony said instead.  Plans, schmlans.  “I gave you my number, remember?  The other night at the laundry thing?  And, so, you haven’t called.  Which is fine.  I mean, I’m fine with it.  Just that it’s been like, I don’t know, a couple of days now, so I thought, maybe you lost it or your phone broke.  Maybe you dropped a gym weight on it.  One of those barbell things?  Or you had to jump in the Charles to save a drowning puppy and your phone got wet.  Those things could happen.”_

_“Hi, Tony,” Steve said, blinking at him like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the offer of excuses.  “Uh, good to see you.  Guess you’re all, ah, recovered?  From the other night?”_

_“What?  Yeah, fine.  Great,” Tony replied quickly, waving a hand and scrunching his face up.  God, this was pathetic.  Steve obviously hadn’t called because he wasn’t interested, and all the broken phone/lost number scenarios Tony’s mind conjured in the middle of the night didn’t change that.  “You didn’t even say hi.  Back there.  I know you saw me.”_

_“I—I didn’t think you’d want me to,” Steve replied.  “In front of everyone like that.” Tony stared him for a long moment, then felt Rhodey come up beside him, bumping his shoulder and casually sipping his cup of coffee.  “Figured you were just bein’ nice. With the phone number thing.  You don’t owe me anything, really.  Just wanted to help.”_

_“I’m not being nice!  I’m trying to ask you out,” Tony ground out in frustration.  “Wait.  That’s not—nevermind.  Look, putting aside the garbage and the vomit and the decontamination shower—“_

_“Okay, wow.  I clearly missed some of this story,” Rhodey interjected._

_“Putting aside all that,” Tony went on.  “We had a moment.  I think.  With the whole Laundry 101 thing, and that creepy lady who would only use that one particular dryer. Why?  Why dryer number 19?  Is it special? Does it dry faster?  Does the number mean something to her?” Tony droned on, then caught himself.  “Anyway, point is, we had a nice night, I thought.  I’d like to do it again sometime.  I mean, obviously, not the laundry or the garbage, but the you-and-me thing.”_

_“I had a good time, too,” Steve replied, mouth curving into a smile._

_“Oh, good Lord,” Rhodey said next to Tony’s shoulder.  He could practically feel his friend roll his eyes. “Look, Steve,” Rhodey began.  “My friend here is terrible at this, obviously.  But, he’s like one of those yappy, little terriers who won’t let go of the chew toy when he gets his mind set on something, and right now, that something is you.  If he calls me one more time and says “It’s working.  Damn,’ before hanging up, I am not going to be responsible for my actions.  So, please, either agree to go out with doofus here or cut him loose.”_

_“What he said, but without the doofus thing.  Low blow, Sourpatch,” Tony chimed in._

_“Have you even been listening to yourself?” Rhodey demanded._

_“I—ah, yes?  Yes, I would like to go out with you, minus the stuff you mentioned,” Steve finally said, looking back and forth between Tony and Rhodey._

_“Great!” Tony and Rhodey said in unison._

_“I can do this myself, you know?” Tony protested._

_“All evidence to the contrary,” Rhodey cut in._

_“You’re a terrible wingman,” Tony said._

_“I’m the best wingman, and you know it.  Got you Hot Janitor Guy, didn’t I?”  Rhodey replied with a smirk.  “Steve?  James Rhodes.  Call me James, or Rhodey, if you want.  Do not call me anything else that Tony does.  Pleasure to meet you.”_

_“How about burgers at Champions’ tonight.  We can watch the game.  Just the two of us,” Tony offered._

_“You already invited me to watch the game there,” Rhodey broke in.  “You said it was Bro-Night.”_

_“How about we grab a burger at Champions’ tonight, just you and me, and Rhodey at the next table over?” Tony amended._

_“That’s not Bro-Night, dude,” Rhodey said, shaking his head sadly._

_“That…sounds great,” Steve replied, biting his lip a bit and clearly trying not to laugh.  “Rhodey is welcome to join us.”_

_“No, he isn’t,” Tony corrected._

_“Not feelin’ the love, Tones,” Rhodey told him, tapping his hand over his heart entirely too dramatically.  “Steve, good luck with this one,” Rhodey said, then mouthed what looked like ‘terrier’ and pointed at Tony.  “He’ll talk your ear off, take over your life, and get you in more trouble than you knew was possible.  He’s also the best person I’ve ever known.  I’ve got forty or so Raiders down at the 365 who will do whatever I say with a rousing ‘Hooah,’ you got me?  Don’t screw this up.”_

_“I’ll try not to,” Steve answered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and supporting this one! 
> 
> Doolittle's Raiders is the name for the Air Force ROTC, and they are Detachment 365.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at sabrecmc.tumblr.com. Come on over!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this chapter, and thank you for your patience! At least it is a long one.

“Well, that was certainly one of the strangest afternoons I’ve had in a long time,” Pepper announced as her heels clicked out a staccato beat across the workshop floor.  Tony’s head jerked up from where he was bent low over one of the consoles, watching as she plopped down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes, stretching her toes out before tucking her legs up underneath her and let out a long sigh. 

“Ask me why,” she ordered, taking a crinkled French fry out of the paper bag she was holding in her lap and biting off the end. 

“I’ve told you that you don’t have to actually click on every, single link PR sends you, you know,” Tony replied, face squinching into a wince when she didn’t answer.  He gave a long look at the equations on the monitor next to him, none of which were cooperating at the moment, then swiveled around on his stool to give Pepper his attention. 

“Funny.  You’re funny.  I’m laughing on the inside,” Pepper retorted, chewing gleefully on her fries and definitely not offering him one. 

“Pepper, my dearest one, tell me why your morning was strange,” Tony asked dutifully, head cocked to one side while he waited.

“First, Thor, whom I am almost certain is some kind of Scandinavian prince masquerading as one of us so as to study our customs—if that isn’t true, don’t tell me because Helen and I have it all worked out, and we’re going with prince--stopped by, and either apologized for insulting me or gave a soliloquy on paint drying while I stared at him.  Hard to be sure,” she said, tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail on her chin. 

A fissure of unwieldy surprise wound its way through Tony at her words, leaving him momentarily unbalanced.  Thor had come to apologize? Which meant…which meant Steve had actually taken Tony’s words to heart.  Which meant…nothing.  Not really.  Probably just didn’t want to antagonize Tony any further, which was smart.  Play nice and all that.  He’d told Steve that fairly bluntly, so no reason it should come as any kind of surprise, really, but there it was, making his stomach clench with the unexpectedness of the gesture. 

“Then, an extremely surly, one-armed man—Barnes, you said, right?  Steve’s best friend?--mumbled his way through an apology while glaring a hole in my rug.  Seriously, I think he managed to disintegrate the wool fibers with the sheer force of his absolute disgust at being there, but, give the man credit, he got through it,” she said with a roll of her eyes.  “It was hard to get a read on him, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say he doesn’t like you very much. I mean, its subtle, but…”

“If I was on fire, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t offer me a glass of water,” Tony muttered disconcertedly, shaking his head and frowning a bit as he pictured the scene. 

“And last, but definitely not least, Natasha, who probably apologized at some point, but seeing as how I spent the last hour and forty-five minutes telling her, a person whom I just met, mind you, about the time Paul Jamison ditched me at Junior Prom for Jennifer Davies, who, at the time, was supposed to be my best friend, I can’t really be certain,” Pepper explained, chewing primly on another fry.  “I’m not actually sure how that happened, but I feel weirdly lighter, and we’re having coffee and getting our nails done next Wednesday.”

“That’s…” Tony started, caught somewhere between a confused frown and a smart-ass remark, because, yeah, that was about par for the course.  “She put the whammy on you,” he laughed, slapping a hand against his thigh, unable to keep the grin off his face, half from Pepper’s situation and half from snatches of conversations long faded into memory. 

“She did actually seem genuinely sorry,” Pepper added, somewhat bemusedly.  “I think.  One of us was sorry about something.”

“She was a Philosophy major at MIT.  I actually introduced her to Barnes, believe it or not,” Tony recalled.  “ Granted, that was mostly so he’d abdicate presidency of the I Heart Steve Fan Club, but still.  She was friends with Thor, and he just kind of tagged along into the group like a very large, lost puppy.  He was an international student—Norwegian, though not a prince, sorry--doing Ancient and Medieval Studies like he was channeling the Daniel Day-Lewis school of method acting.  Good guy, though.  Had a brother that was a bit of an asshole.  One time, my birthday, actually, he got Bruce so wound up, I thought Bruce was actually going to throw a punch, but Steve…he, well, Steve--”  Tony ground to a halt, swallowed, stopped, throat gone bone dry, and looked helplessly at Pepper.

Damn.  It was so easy to fall back into thinking about them.  Him.  Steve in the middle of everything, pissed off and beautiful because it was Tony’s birthday, and they were going to sing to him and have some cake, so help him, God, and then they could take it outside, though, by the time the cake was cut, whatever it was had boiled down to a simmer and everyone managed to eat their anger into submission.  Steve had given him a sketch of Tony’s Robotics class project, Dum-E, who still liked to pick colored pencils out of a tray and hand them to Tony, because that was the first thing he learned. 

Tony could see it so clearly, the two of them on the floor of what had been Steve’s crappy apartment at the time, before it became theirs for those few months when he’d believed everything was just beginning.  Hours spent furiously writing and re-writing code, while Steve taught the useless scrap-pile red versus orange over and over until the subroutine finally kicked in.

“I think Nat and I might be getting matching tattoos,” Pepper continued as if Tony hadn’t spoken.  “I can’t be sure,” she said, picking delicately at the words.  “But we might be besties now.”

“The world trembles at the thought,” Tony conceded with a deferential nod.  “I, ah.  I might have mentioned something to Steve.  About the yelling and all,” Tony admitted, catching her glance and forcing himself not to look away.   “No one does puppy-eyed guilt-tripping quite like Steve, trust me,” Tony finished with a shrug.  He wasn’t going to ask.  Was not.  Was not. Was—“Steve come with them?” he heard himself say, then winced and turned back around on the stool to look at the screensaver wave patterns of light across the monitor, which was easier to stare at than the flash of sympathy that lit Pepper’s face. 

Tony picked up a half-built piece of something, he wasn’t even sure what at this point, and held it in front of himself to have something to look long enough that he could stop thinking about the idea of Steve being here, in the Tower, in Tony’s space, this place he’d built for himself.  A monument to…something.  Something that had nothing to do with Steve. 

So, really, no reason to  wonder what Steve thought about it all, if maybe he looked at the marble and steel, the warm woods and Pepper’s carefully curated art collection, and wished he’d made a different choice.  As giant middle fingers to your ex went, the Tower was certainly right up there, Tony supposed, then grimaced at the thought.  We are going with this has nothing to do with Steve, he reminded himself forcefully.  Nothing.

“No.  Natasha said he was working,” Pepper replied after a pause.  He could hear the question in her voice, but, thankfully, she cared more about him than satisfying her own curiosity.  One of the many reasons he loved her.  “Natasha also said to tell you that Steve took the papers to some lawyer friend.  Murdock.  I looked him up, and he does criminal defense down in Hell’s Kitchen.  Odd choice, but I guess they know him.”

“That was Barnes’ idea, but whatever.  Steve wants a lawyer to look at it, fine.  Probably best in the long run.  Can’t exactly say there was duress, or claim that he didn’t understand what he was signing that way,” Tony pointed out tightly.  

It made perfect sense, when he said it out loud, but there was a sharp, brittle sting pushing into the center of his chest at the idea that Steve apparently felt the need to see just how ironclad this whole circus sideshow really was.  The warm feeling that the Three Musketeers’ apologies had garnered fled in an instant.  Fine.  Let him try to find a loophole.  If he wanted to play it that way, Tony could more than double down on it. 

“Well, anyway.  Just thought you should know.  Might take a bit longer than you were hoping, if he gets a lawyer involved,” Pepper said, munching steadily on the bag of fries.  “Here,” she said, tossing him a cheeseburger wrapped in greased-stained wax paper.  “Eat something.”

“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Tony said as he unwrapped the cheeseburger. 

“You keep me around because you couldn’t tie your shoes without me,” Pepper retorted with a lopsided smile.

“I’d make it a week.   At least,” Tony argued as he took a large bite.

“Really?  What’s your social security number?”  Pepper asked archly.

“Five?” Tony guessed.

“Five.  You’re missing a couple of digits there,” Pepper replied. 

“Guess you have job security for the other eight, then,” Tony said, wiping his mouth with the napkin.

“Well, I’m still sorry this whole thing is taking longer than you’d hoped, Tony,” Pepper told him.  “I know you want it over sooner rather than later.”

“What’s taking longer?” Rhodey asked as he pushed open the workshop door.  “This hurts, Pep,” he said, shaking his head and tapping a hand over his heart in mock sadness as he hooked a finger into the now empty fast food bag that was sitting on the table in front of Pepper. 

“James!  I didn’t know you were in town,” Pepper said, shooting Tony a disgruntled look as she got up to hug Rhodey warmly.  “It’s so good to see you!”

“Got to see a man about a divorce,” Rhodey responded, clapping his hands together in front of him.  “Figured we’d celebrate Tony’s re-newfound freedom in style tonight.”

“That’s going to have to wait a bit, Honeybear,” Tony told him, turning around on his stool again.  “Steve’s lawyered up, apparently.”

“Natasha said this Murdock guy—the lawyer friend--was supposed to stop by Steve’s this evening with the paperwork, so hopefully, it won’t actually take very long,” Pepper interjected.  “Though, in my experiences, lawyers tend to feel like small, useless little people if they can’t find something wrong with a document.”

“You’re kidding?  He’s kidding, right?  A lawyer?  Really?” Rhodey demanded, looking between Tony and Pepper.  Pepper’s mouth twisted into a frown, while Tony took a big bite of cheeseburger and leaned back against the edge of the workstation.  “Jets, Tony.  Please?  Just one?”

Tony let out a low puff of air and jerked his head up in silent appreciation of Rhodey’s ire.  It somehow made his own anger dissipate enough for him to chew and swallow, so that was something.

“Eh, the lawyer thing was all Barnes, I’m fairly sure.  Aaaaaaand,” Tony said, drawing out the word.  “Jet or no jet, I wouldn’t wish Natasha’s wrath on anyone.  Nothing I can do about it, if he wants to make it a fight.  Pretty sure we can out-shark this Murdock character, but I admit, I was hoping to avoid getting into it.”

“Oh, we’re getting into it,” Rhodey snorted.  “This isn’t Divorce Court, man.  This shit is done.  What’s he think?  He’s going to get more from you or something?  Or just screw over your life for a bit because he can?  Not happening.  Come on, get your coat.”

“Uh, what?” Tony spluttered uselessly, looking between Pepper and Rhodey in confusion. 

“Your coat.  Get it. We’re going down there.  If I have to sit on his doorstep and sing the saddest, honky-tonkiest, trailer-on-wheels, Hee-Haw-watching, fire barrel-having, white trash country songs until he signs, I will do it,” Rhodey announced with a firm nod.  “Come on.  Let’s go.”

“That’s…an incredible level of commitment, Sourpatch, and we both know that you have just such a repertoire, which I am definitely not judging, but I don’t think it’ll be necess—“ Tony started, cutting off when Rhodey grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around on his stool, then started wheeling him towards the workshop door.  “Hey!  Hey!  Pepper, help, I’m being kidnapped!”

“Um, I’m Team Johnny Cash, here,” Pepper said lightly, saluting them with a fry as Rhodey pushed Tony past her perch on the sofa.  “Go get ‘em, cowboy.”

“Coat.  Now. Go,” Rhodey ordered, leaning over Tony’s shoulder long enough to pluck the half-eaten cheeseburger out of Tony’s hand. 

“I think this whole thing was subterfuge to get my lunch,” Tony groused.  “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll meet you in the garage.  Hey now!  Come on.  That’s just cruel and wrong,” Tony muttered as Rhodey took a big bite out of his lunch.  “Threatening to use your power and influence to order a covert military strike on my ex is one thing.  But, you don’t touch a man’s cheeseburger.  Friendship line?  Rearview mirror, buddy.”

“This stuff is terrible for you,” Rhodey argued around a large bite.  “Damn. That’s good.  You should really try this,” Rhodey snorted, then wrapped the burger back up and handed it to Tony.  “Quit stalling.”

“It isn’t stalling to try to finish my own lunch,” Tony grumbled, looking down disconsolately at his half-eaten burger.  With a long-suffering sigh, he got up from the stool and headed for the workshop elevator.

“Go on.  I’ll give you the run down on the upcoming Board meeting later,” Pepper called out as Tony stepped into the elevator, the door sliding closed on the last of her words and whatever it was she and Rhodey were about to talk about.  Him, obviously.  Some little tete-a-tete entitled How Do We Solve a Problem Like Tony’s Terrible Past Life Choices, probably, he thought with a beleaguered sigh, though their shared indignation was something truly inspirational to behold. 

He was torn between being pissed off and just so tired of even thinking about it, or studiously avoiding thinking about it, that he wasn’t sure which way was up half the time.  It felt good to hand the baton off to them for a moment, though he wouldn’t admit it to them.  He suspected it wasn’t exactly a secret.  Team Johnny Cash for the win, he thought with a wisp of a laugh that rattled through his chest and broke something loose that he hadn’t quite realize had been winding its way through him.

He made his way to his private suite and went to the bathroom sink, washing the grease off his hands and splashing some of the cold water on his face and tossed the half-eaten cheeseburger in the trash.  He’d lost whatever appetite he’d momentarily managed to have.   

Tony sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady himself when his stomach swooped at the thought.  So.  He was going back.  To Steve’s. This time, with Rhodey in tow, so there was that, but the reality of having to see Steve again, when he hadn’t prepared himself for it, when he’d told himself that it was just that one time, one time, and they were done, was settling in his gut like a stone.  He just wasn’t sure what name to call it, or maybe he knew, but was afraid to name it.

He dried his hands and tossed the towel on the counter, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.  He looked…God, he wanted to see determination or disgust or anything at all except what looked a lot like terrified anticipation on his face, but he couldn’t deny it.  He both wanted to never see Steve again and now, having gotten his eyes on him, craved it like a two-bit junkie with the shakes.

This was smart, really, he told himself rather unconvincingly.  Get it done, before Barnes or this lawyer friend-person managed to convince Steve to roll the proverbial dice on Tony’s threats.  Lawyers, in his experience, lived and breathed settlements, and it wouldn’t take long for one to sniff out that possibility here, given Tony’s circumstances.  So, this made sense.  Getting in Steve’s face a bit, which, really, was what Rhodey was up to, Tony knew. 

Though, Tony knew Steve well enough from past experience to realize that getting Steve’s back up about something was generally not the way to go about getting anything accomplished.  Immovable object, thy name is Steve Rogers when he’s got his mind set on something, Tony thought with a tinge of reluctant admiration.  He’d loved that about Steve, once, when he’d believed it was directed at finding Tony completely, if somewhat bafflingly, wonderful, this unshakeable certainty that Steve seemed to have about it.  About Tony. 

Well, about Tony’s money, as it turned out. 

Standing in front of his closet, filled with a shaded gradient from black to cream, Tony waited for the suit that screamed I Am Totally Unaffected By This to jump out at him.  When it didn’t, he sighed and reached out and grabbed the first one that his hand hit, a dark, steel gray, and dressed quickly, since Rhodey was probably waiting. 

Sure enough, when he exited the Tower’s elevator into his private garage in the bowels of the Tower, Rhodey was leaning a hip against the passenger door of one of the silver Audi’s, arms crossed over his chest, giving Tony an expectant look. 

“Thought maybe you weren’t coming,” Rhodey said, pulling open the door and sliding into the seat while Tony climbed behind the wheel.

“Are you kidding?  Cheeseburger and divorce, all in one day?  Who could resist?”  Tony quipped, starting the car and circling out of the parking garage with a squeal of rubber.  “Not saying best day ever, because there was that thing at Hef’s that time, but…I am completely onboard with pulling a drop-in.  You pants him—good luck with that, by the way, flyboy--I’ll grab the paperwork, and we’ll meet by the swing-set at dusk.  I love this plan.”

“Yeah, right,” Rhodey nodded, mouth twisting as he looked out the tinted window to the glass and steel jungle beyond. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Tony demanded with a flare of annoyance, though he was fairly sure it was more directed at himself than Rhodey.

“Just that this has apparently been hanging over your head for weeks, from what Pepper tells me, and you let it sit there, then sent Pepper like some errand girl—no, don’t start, you practically have her running the company these days, not exactly your typical PA stuff—then finally decided to go yourself, and managed to show up without a notary, which you knew you needed, like you aren’t thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else on anything that isn’t Steve Rogers,” Rhodes ground out, one finger tapping out a rhythm against the top of his thigh.  “I know you.  Anything else, any _one_ else, and you’d have had it handled.  You don’t mess around when you want something done, and patience, let’s face it, has never been your strong suit, but this?  This, you let sit there.  Because it’s him.  Steve.  God, Rogers was the only one who ever…because he fucked you over, and you’re still half letting him, for some stupid-ass reason that you won’t admit to, but probably sounds a lot like your dick of a father’s voice in your head.”

“It’s like you don’t know me at all,” Tony objected wearily.  “I was busy.  I forgot about the notary thing, okay?  It was stupid, and now, he’s got this Murdock person involved.  So, yeah, my bad.  It was a mistake, not Daddy didn’t love me childhood trauma bullshit.  And how does Steve even know a lawyer anyway?  They got some slip-and-fall grift going?”

“Murdock does wills and basic legal stuff pro bono for service members,” Rhodey told him.  “Pepper looked him up.”

“Oh. Well, that’s…fuck,” Tony winced, mouth flattening into a thin line.  He didn’t want to think about that.  Steve, and why he’d need a will, and things that involved Steve in a desert somewhere with death buried under the sand.  He just…didn’t want to think about it.  It was okay not to think about that.  Didn’t mean anything.  Not wanting Steve dead was barely a hair above the giving a shit line, after all.  It wasn’t…it didn’t mean anything.  So.  Best to just not think about that thing that doesn’t mean anything ever again.

“Yeah,” Rhodey agreed. “Look, I’m just saying.  I got your back, okay?  I know this is hard, man. I get it.  I remember what you were like after…well, everything.”

“You mean, when I was thrilled to be free of my gold-digging ex and reveling in my newfound freedom and maturity?” Tony asked, giving Rhodey a quick, apologetic look.

“Looked a tad more like trying to work your way alphabetically through the alcohol cabinet and your shitty group of not-friends-hangers-on, but whatever gets you through the nights,” Rhodey replied, wrapping one warm hand around Tony’s shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. 

He couldn’t exactly deny Rhodey’s words, mostly because that whole couple of months was a blur of terrible decisions, trying to decide if he hated himself or Steve more, and finally hitting the rock bottom coin-flip of Ty and a black eye. 

Rhodey had taken one look at that and dragged him off to a month or so of What Were You Thinking rehab courtesy of Mrs. Rhodes and her firm belief that everything could be solved with prayer, fried foods and hard work.  He’d fixed everything in her house that needed fixing and then some, then the neighbor’s house, and finally, the Church building and Sunday school, and by the end of the month, he was too tired or too full to keep on sliding into the bottom of a bottle he couldn’t crawl out of, praise broken sound systems, Jesus and Crisco.

They rode in silence the rest of the way across the city to Steve’s, the rouged-up façade of the walk-up pretty much just as Tony remembered it.  Shitty and cheap and brimming with a weary below-averageness that had long ago stopped aiming for upwardly mobile. 

The thought that it was no place that Steve belonged flitted across his mind before he could stop it.

“Charming,” Rhodey observed as Tony pulled the Audi into a space a block away that was marked for deliveries to a dry cleaner’s promising suits in by nine would be back by five. 

“I hate Brooklyn,” Tony said in a flat monotone, though it wasn’t true, or it wasn’t truth, at least.  He never came here.  Not because he’d ever really sought to avoid Steve, or not exactly.  More, he’d been avoiding facing a might-have-been that had never really been a future, only he hadn’t known it when he’d been planning on revolutionizing technology from Flatbush, while Steve saved the world or some fucked-up version of it and came home to Tony, with stories and scars and dreams of never leaving again.

“Uh-huh,” Rhodey said as he swiped a hand across his mouth, like he could wipe away whatever it was he wasn’t saying. 

They walked the block side by side, and got to Steve’s building in short time.  Tony took a fortifying breath and jerked open the door, which rattled against the frame, and stepped inside.  The foyer was same, except there was a cardboard box with “Free” written in black marker across one of the sides filled with books, a clip-on desk-lamp, and what Tony would swear was a bong made out of a hollowed-out coconut. 

“No,” Rhodey admonished lightly as they took the steps. 

“I kind of want that,” Tony replied, following Rhodey’s quick steps up to Steve’s floor, but giving the box a longing look.  “Could be a conversation piece.”

“No,” Rhodey repeated, sounding not at all out of breath, the physically-fit jerk.

There were only two apartments on Steve’s floor, with the staircase in the middle of the landing separating them, and Steve’s boring, blue mat marking his door.  Rhodey raised his eyebrows, then swept out his hands for Tony to pass, which left him no choice but to knock on Steve’s door.  And wait.

And wait. 

Fuck.

“He isn’t here,” Tony observed.

“You don’t say,” Rhodey remarked, stepping up to knock harder on the door, as if the sound of Tony’s pounding on the door had been lost in the massive echo chamber of the apartment beyond.

“Really?” Tony asked, squelching up his face into a frown. 

“We wait,” Rhodey said, turning around to lean against the door, feet braced out in front of him. 

“We’re just going to stand here and wait?” Tony asked.  “For God knows how long until Steve maybe shows up?  Assuming he even does.  Could have plans, you know.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Rhodey replied nonchalantly, checking his watch.  “Figure he should be home anytime now, if he works a regular shift.  Does he work a regular shift?”

“How would I know?” Tony demanded, turning to look over his shoulder and peer down the empty stairs.  When he turned back around, Rhodey was giving him a shrewd, knowing look.  “Fine.  Yes.  Gets off at five.  Commute is about an hour. I only know because Pepper told me, since she’d been trying to find a time when he was home to get him the papers.  Stop looking at me.”

“Not looking at you,” Rhodey replied, staring at him.  “This is what I’m talking about, Tones.  Two days into this, and we might as well be sitting in the food court at MIT again.  Do not do this to yourself, man.  I’m begging you.  Not again.”

“Not doing anything, but getting a divorce, Rhodes.  Hand to, well, can we go with Tesla?”  Tony asked, raising his right hand.   

“How many times you look at that ugly muppet in the drawer in your workshop in the last twenty-four hours?” Rhodey asked, forehead creasing in speculation. 

“I didn’t—“ Tony broke off, as heavy, clicking footsteps clamored up the stairs.  He leaned over the railing to look down, though could only see the vague shapes of a group figures moving up the stairs.  Rhodey straightened up and came to stand next to him, hands curling around the stair rail.

“He isn’t worth it,” Rhodey said quietly as he looked down at the approaching group.

“Yeah,” Tony breathed out, running a hand through his hair.  “I know.  I _know_ , Rhodey, okay?  I’m fine. I’m good.  I got this,” Tony said, holding both hands out in front of him in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.  

Rhodey grimaced and hunched his shoulders, hands braced on the rail, but didn’t say anything else as the figures rounded the last landing, a burst of laughter announcing their arrival. 

“---and then, I come ‘round the corner, and there he is getting the shit kicked out of him by some Neanderthal three times his size soaking wet, and the obnoxious little shit has the gall to say “I could do this all day,” while literally wiping blood off his face with the shirt I know his momma got him for Church, and damn if I—oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Barnes broke off as he nearly skidded to a halt as he came around the top of the staircase to face Tony and Rhodey.

“Miss me?” Tony asked with a jaunty wave.  Natasha and an African-American man he didn’t recognize flanked Barnes like angry terriers.  “Nat, Random Guy,” Tony acknowledged with a nod.

“Just here to pick up the paperwork,” Rhodey announced from behind him.  “Steve coming home soon?”

Barnes gave Natasha a long look, and she said something low to him in Russian. 

“We’re meeting him with dinner,” Natasha said, holding up a plastic bag filled with white take-out containers and way too many fortune cookies and soy sauces. 

For a second, Tony was back in Boston, laughing over Barnes’ haul of stuff he considered fair game that he would share with Steve, ketchup packets, round little containers of salad dressings, napkins, plasticware, even huge spools of toilet tissue that some less than stellar employee had left on top of the back of the toilet instead of locking onto the holder.  Suckers, Tony thought with the ghost of remembered laughter.

“We won’t keep him,” Rhodey said quickly.  “Just need the paperwork.”

Natasha moved past the two of them and dug keys out of her purse to unlock the door, making Tony think of Steve’s struggles with the lock.  Which were not his concern.  At all.  And he wasn’t. Concerned. Just, you know, an observation.  That’s all.

The apartment was exactly as he remembered from yesterday, neat and weirdly homey, with its mismatched bookshelves full of photos, stacks of clothes and patchwork quilt-covered bed that managed to look both efficient and charming and so very Steve he almost didn’t want to go back in, like if he did, he’d become part of something he was desperately trying to forget.  Natasha, Barnes and new guy were already inside though, so there wasn’t really any choice.  He stepped through the threshold and squeezed between the coffee table and loveseat to give Rhodes room to stand next to him.

“This is Sam.  Sam Wilson.  Sam, this is Tony Stark and Colonel James Rhodes,” Natasha said by way of introduction. 

“Yeah, I kinda got that first part.   Tony Stark, huh?  Wow.  Hey, nice to meet you both,” Wilson said, extending a hand to shake first Tony’s, then Rhodey’s.  “You, ah, you know Steve from the Army?”

“College. Sort of,” Natasha said, while Barnes unloaded take-out containers with the apparent hope that he could cause one to explode in Tony’s direction if he glared at it hard enough.

“Oh, right.  MIT.  Wow, that’s something, isn’t it?”  Wilson replied, looking along the line of tension that seemed to radiate between the other four people in the room.  “Small world and all that, I guess.”

“If you sing, Rhodes will shoot you,” Tony said nonchalantly.  “Possibly with jets.”

“Sing that song, and I’m pretty sure you get Geneva Conventioned. Hell, no, man,” Wilson agreed with an easy smile.  “Well, more the merrier, right?”

“They aren’t staying,” Barnes told the countertop, where he was arranging the chopsticks and sauces in what could only be described as an aggressive manner. 

Oh. 

 _Oh_.

This was a set-up thing, Tony realized, head tipping to the side as he surveyed Wilson with more interest.  This was a come over, Sam, have some take-out, hang with us, and by us, we mean Steve, thing.  Which was fine.  Not any of his business.  Just here for the paperwork, like Rhodey said.

“I could eat,” Tony announced, plopping down on the faux-suede loveseat and crossing his legs in front of him.  “Smells delicious.” 

Honestly, it was worth it just to ruin Barnes’ carefully planned evening. 

“Tony,” Rhodey warned lowly.  “We literally just had this conversation.”

 “About dinner?  Yeah, I know I promised you white tablecloths, Sugarbear, but we’ve got to wait on Steve anyway, so,” Tony said with a shrug.  “I mean, unless there’s some reason we shouldn’t stay?” he continued, looking innocently between Rhodey and Natasha, who was watching him with a calculating look and probably poisoning his lo mein. 

“Sure.  Stay,” she said finally, tossing a look at Barnes.  So, clearly, they had not told Wilson about any of this, and had no plans to spill the beans that Steve still had a ring on it.   Ah, subterfuge.  Always works out so well.

“Great,” Wilson beamed uncomfortably into the silence.  “So, um.  Air Force?” Wilson asked Rhodey carefully, clearly not blind to the tension filling all the empty spaces in the room like pressurized air.

“Two tours in Afghanistan.  You?”  Rhodey told him with a sigh as he sat down next to Tony, shooting him a frustrated look. 

“Bagram, mostly.  Pararescue,” Wilson replied, which was all it took to suddenly become MASH around here.   With Rhodey and Wilson occupied, it gave Tony a moment to study Barnes and Natasha, where she was sidled against his side, running a hand up and down over the back of his jacket in a soothing gesture while he arranged egg rolls and wontons on a plate with what could only be a precision born of absolute, soul-crushing disappointment.

Evening well spent then, Tony thought, though Barnes utter contempt seemed a tad out of proportion, all things considered.  Sure, Barnes was always going to be on Steve’s side, but he could’ve at least acted mildly embarrassed over how things ended up, considering Barnes had probably known all along what was going on, which stung, if only because it made it all the more pathetic that Tony hadn’t seen it for what it was. 

Hell, on his generous days, Tony had even entertained the thought that Barnes’ initial resistance to his relationship with Steve had been out of some effort to try to warn Tony off.  Ultimately ineffective, of course, though he’d give Barnes credit for trying.  Blaring air horns would’ve been more subtle, at least in the beginning, when they were playing tug-o-Steve.  This…this anger that Barnes directed at him, when Tony had been the dumbass getting taken for a ride, was a bit on the wrong side of overly dramatic, all things considered. 

Loud footfalls and a flurry of voices from the hallway were the only warnings he had to gird himself before Steve pushed through the door, Thor and a petite brunette following in his wake.    Steve came to an abrupt halt just inside the door and looked around in confusion at his rather full apartment, his gaze settling on Tony for a long beat before moving over to Natasha for an answer.

“Guess who’s coming to dinner,” Natasha said in a low voice, rolling her lip between her teeth as he eyes darted back and forth.  Tony barked out an aborted laugh, half because of her joke, half just because he remembered her habit of throwing random movie references around at completely the wrong time, like it was that one skill that eluded her, and she was determined to master it no matter how many times it failed her.

“Oh.  Um.  Okay,” Steve mumbled, giving Tony an expectant look that Tony didn’t return.  “Hey, Sam.  James, good to see you again.  You remember Thor?  And this is Dr. Jane Foster, his fiancé.”

“Hi,” Jane said, with a short, stilted wave, eyes wide. 

“Jane, you know Nat and Bucky.  This is Sam Wilson, one of the counselors at the VA.  And Colonel James Rhodes, Air Force.  And—and Tony Stark,” Steve finished, gesturing somewhat lamely towards where Tony had an elbow propped up on the arm of loveseat.

“Dr. Jane Foster, the astrophysicist?” Tony queried, turning his head to look up at the newcomer. 

“Tony Stark the Tony Stark?” she asked with a light laugh. 

“One and the same.  Your work on Einstein-Rosen bridges is fascinating,” Tony said.  “Easily some of the best research in the field in the past decade.”

“You follow the journals?  Of course, you do.  You’re Tony Stark.  Sorry, I—wow, that’s--thank you!” Jane exclaimed.  “That’s…I mean, coming from you, that’s, wow.”

“Jane is one of the foremost authorities on the subject.  She leaves me for Berm tomorrow to speak at one of her science conferences.  She will be the notekey speaker!” Thor announced with clear pride, one arm sweeping around Jane’s shoulders and shaking her in what was probably meant to be a light, fortifying gesture that probably rattled her teeth. 

“Keynote, honey,” Jane corrected.  “But, yes, that’s I.  Me.  I am.  I am me.  Jane Foster.”

“Jane, you should tell Tony about your latest project,” Steve urged, seeming to have adjusted to his initial shock at finding his closet of an apartment suddenly brimming over with blasts from the past.  He brushed past Tony and went into the tiny kitchen, nudging Barnes out of the way so he could grab a six-pack of beer out of the fridge.  “Jane’s been out in New Mexico doing some testing, but she’s had some issues with the equipment.  Jane, Tony can fix anything,” Steve said, tipping the neck of a bottle of beer in Tony’s direction. 

Tony sucked in a dry breath that didn’t want to go down properly.  It burned a path through his chest and stomach.  Or maybe that was the words themselves, the ease of the praise, the unexpectedness of it, the casual simpleness, like it hadn’t been years since he’d heard anything like that from Steve.  Granted, it was probably just sucking up, but the fact that it still managed to unwind him so easily in some inexplicable way that praise from Steve always could, should be enough to tell him to heed Rhodey’s warning.  He didn’t need to be here.   There was nothing here for him, except misery and disappointment.  There never had been.

“Or build it,” Steve continued with a slight huff of a laugh, looking down at the plate of bitterly perfect eggrolls and wontons while Tony stared, mouth opening and closing around he had no idea what.  “Used to build the most amazing things.  Guess you still do,” Steve acknowledged with a nod.  “Saw some of it over there.  SI was always the best stuff to have, if you could get it.  Not that we grunts got it most of the time, but the—remember that thing Clint had?” Steve asked, tapping his elbow against Barnes’ arm.

“SMAW,” Barnes provided.  “Shoulder-launched Multipurpose Assault Weapon.  SMAW-NE’s got that neat warhead, though.”

“Right, right. That was SI.  Did you…was that you?” Steve asked, looking over at Tony with a strange sort of intense curiosity, like it somehow mattered, sounding almost…proud?  God, project much there, Stark, Tony wondered at himself in annoyance.

It had been his design, but it didn’t matter.  None of this small-talk, kumbaya, we’re all adults here, let’s be bygones, bullshit mattered.  He needed to get out of here and away from Steve before Rhodey’s words from earlier became prophetic.  It was too easy, slipping back into this groove with Steve.  He was skating way too close to some edge that if he fell over, he'd probably never manage to crawl out again.  It had been hard enough the first time.  Rhodey was right.  He couldn't do this again.

“No clue,” Tony answered with a shrug.  “Got my papers?”  He felt Rhodey stiffen a bit at his side while the word rolled through the rest of the room in a wave.

“We really didn’t mean to intrude on your party,” Rhodey said from next to him.  “I think it’s best if we just got what we came for and left, if it’s all the same.”

Steve glanced down at Tony, a bright flicker of something passing over his face too quickly for Tony to catch, then ducked his head and turned away for a second before looking back at him.  For a moment, it was just the two of them, like the rest of the apartment had just fallen into the void and neither of them cared.  Steve took a breath, clearly bracing, squaring his shoulders, muscle leaping in his cheek as his jaw tightened, feet planted apart, the way Tony had seen him do so many times.

“Matt—the lawyer—he got caught up on a, ah, he said late docket?  He’s supposed to come by either late tonight or tomorrow after work,” Steve explained in a flat monotone.  “I’m sure its fine.  Same as last time, right?” Steve said with a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “I’ll sign ‘em as soon as he brings them by.  He’s got a notary who can come with him, so—so everything’s fixed.  Just like it never happened, right?  I can drop them at Stark Tower, if that’s what you want.”

“Fine,” Tony replied after a sickening beat when he thought he might say something else, though God only knew what, but an insane fear that he might spliced through him at the exact moment he meant to speak.  “We should—we’ll just go.  You’ve got your…thing.”

“Stay,” Steve said.  “You’re—you should stay.  We have plenty.  Jane’s gonna follow you out if you try to leave without talking to her about her equipment, so.  Stay.  If you want.  James and Sam are only on year two, from the sound of it, so you might as well.”

The world was opening up again, filling in at the corners of his vision with the tight, expectant hush of unused voices and stilled hands.  Barnes was looking at Steve with a tense grimace, clearly displeased, though that could be simply due to the fact that it was a day ending in Y.  Nat’s soft gaze was on Tony, heavy and too clear, and he wanted to run, bolt out of here and into the blessed sweet-stink of the back alley New York night, but that would be some kind of admission he didn’t want to make in front of Steve.

“Sure,” Tony heard himself say.  “Why not?  Old friends and all that, right?”

“Right,” Steve agreed, clearing his throat, body relaxing its stance like a metal spring uncoiling.  “Okay, tofu fried rice for Jane,” he called out, handing a plate of food and long red sleeve of chopsticks to Jane.  The rest of the food was passed around in some sort of Darwinian cattle call that ended up with Natasha getting the top-of-the-food-chain two wontons and an eggroll, much to the protestations of a decidedly wonton-less Barnes.  Tony somehow ended up with a plate of rice noodles, eggroll and wonton, and he considered it a show of great restraint that he didn’t wag it in Barnes’ general direction out of sheer spite and being twelve.

He spent the first part of dinner in conversation with Jane, who, as it turned out, was blindingly intelligent and deeply passionate about her project, which he was probably going to end up funding because damn if it didn’t sound fascinating, and she was stuck with loaner equipment from the university that wasn’t really what she needed.  They were onto quantum stability theorem when Thor finally interrupted and pulled her away, though she gave Tony an apologetic glance and mouthed “call me,” at him, pantomiming a phone to her mouth and ear with her hand. 

Rhodey and Wilson seemed to have exhausted dick-measuring war stories, and were on to Wilson’s work at the VA, which seemed to revolve around transition counseling.  Tony looked over to Steve, who was sitting on the edge of the twin bed, shifting the rice on his plate around with his fork.  That, at least, explained how the two of them knew each other.  That was….fine.

Really, under the circumstances, it was probably unprofessional for anything to develop between them.

Not that he cared.

Probably a rule about that, though.

“Steve, we’re going to head out in a bit,” Jane said after putting her plate in the kitchen sink.  “Do you need a ride to class?”

“Nah, I’m good.  Bus picks up right down the block. But, thanks,” Steve replied.  “You have a safe trip, okay?  Knock ‘em dead with your science stuff.”

“Jane will slay them all with her science, have no doubt,” Thor pronounced, placing a light kiss on the top of her head. 

“You’re taking classes?” Tony piped up, taking a knee from Rhodey for his efforts.  He tossed him a perturbed look and turned back to Steve.

“Yeah.  Well, just one.  For now,” Steve said carefully, still sculpting his rice.  Honestly, it was just annoying. 

“That’s good.  I mean, I’m glad,” Tony said, almost surprised to find he meant it.

“Got my GED for the Army. After 9/11,” Steve explained, giving Tony a quick look.  “Like you said.  The GED thing, not the Army thing.  You weren’t too keen on the Army thing--,” Steve stopped and dragged his eyes up to Barnes, who just gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head, once, back and forth. 

“Not true.  I was for parts of the Army thing,” Tony corrected with a grin before he caught himself and gave a quick look to see if Rhodey had noticed, which, of course, he had.  Stupid, annoying observational skills.

“Ah, right,” Steve said, a blush staining his cheeks.  “Well, anyway, Army helps with some college now, though, so that’s good.”

“Art?” Tony guessed, then immediately regretted that he’d ever said anything when Steve’s bad hand flexed, making him send the fork clattering onto the plate in what had to be the world’s loudest, most accusatory sound Tony had ever heard. 

“Ah, no,” Steve breathed out with a slight wince, though the look he shot Tony was full of almost grateful understanding.  “History.  Art’s a little tricky these days.”

“Right.  Sorry.  Sorry, that was stupid of me,” Tony rushed out in a fumbling string of words.  

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” Jane said curiously as she pulled her purse over her shoulder.  “I’d love to see your work.  I’ve got a friend, Darcy, remember her?  She works in a gallery down in Soho. If you’re—you know.  I mean,” Jane stopped, biting her lip and looking between Steve and Tony, then up at Thor, who hovered above her.

“It’s alright, Tony.  You don’t have to apologize,” Steve said quickly.  “Used to do a lot of drawing when me an’ Tony---when we knew each other.  Just little sketches and stuff.  Nothing big.  Not so much anymore.  But, thanks,”   Steve said to Jane.  He was back to pushing the rice around on his plate, the tines of his fork tracing thin lines through the grains and making a scraping sound in the quiet. 

“They weren’t—he was good,” Tony corrected, though why the instant need to do so burned through him so quickly, he wasn’t sure.  These were Steve’s friends, after all.  With the exception of Jane and possibly Wilson, both of whom seemed to be relatively new to the circle, They knew him probably a lot better than Tony ever had, so what was the point?  But, he couldn’t not say it, so there was that.  Some leftover need to defend someone who didn’t need or deserve it, who the hell knew?  Except…except Steve had been good at his artwork.  Damn good.  Better than that crap Pepper made him buy.  “You were good.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve finally said.  There was a crease forming between his eyes, and he kept bouncing his leg, making the plate on his lap move, in what Tony knew from experience was a nervous habit, something Steve did when he got himself wound in knots, like that night when Steve had bought them those terrible frozen crabcakes because he thought they were fancy, and put a white sheet over their table with a few red carnations in a glass, and spent the entire dinner trying to sit still, because—because--

_“There’s a ring,” Tony said, blinking stupidly at the bag of coffee grounds with a silver band, two hands holding a heart with a crown on it, nestled amongst the brown flecks.  His first thought, which he’d deny forever later, was that this was a serious safety hazard. “My coffee has a ring.”_

_“Figured you’d say yes to at least one of those,” Steve voice sounded from next to him. When Tony turned, Steve was on one knee, holding Tony’s ‘Engineers Do It With Precision’ coffee mug._

“You call the doc I gave you?  Martinez?” Wilson asked Steve around a mouthful of wonton, drawing Tony’s mind back to the present. 

“Yeah.  He’s booked up ‘til May, but I got on the waitlist,” Steve responded, giving Wilson a brief glance before going back to building his rice mountain. 

“This is hand-doc or back-doc?” Barnes questioned. 

“Hand,” Steve replied in that same flat, tired tone from earlier that Tony was starting to find incredibly grating. 

“Least I don’t have that problem.  See me finding that silver lining, babe?” Barnes asked rhetorically, bumping his shoulder into Natasha. 

“You’re just a little ray of sunshine,” she replied, giving him a slant-eyed look that was full of affection. 

“I gotta go,” Steve said abruptly, standing and walking to the kitchen to put his plate on top of Jane and Thor’s pile of dishes in the sink.  He picked up his backpack from next to the bed and slung it over one shoulder.  He stopped next to where Tony sat and peered down at him with a tight, nonplussed look.  “I’ll get the papers to you as soon as possible.  You don’t have to come back.  I’m not—I don’t want to fight with you, Tony.  Think we did enough of that for one lifetime.  Let’s just…get this over with, okay?  James, it was good to see you.”

“Sure.  Sure, that’s—“ _what I want,_ Tony mentally finished.  He turned his head to look at Rhodey next to him, maybe to gauge his reaction, maybe for support, he didn’t know, but Rhodey was watching Steve, too, a deep frown marring his features.  “That’s fine.  Good.  Thanks. Glad to, ah, hear it.”

Steve nodded and swallowed thickly, throat bobbing like he was struggling with the effort not to say more, then walked out the door, closing it behind him without another word. 

Everyone was trying desperately not to stare at him, except for Barnes, who was probably working out the pattern for his Tony Stark voodoo doll because he’d upset Steve, which, why was Steve even upset about any of this?  Guilt?  Well, karma with a side of payback is a bitch to choke down, Tony supposed, and if Steve wanted to play the woe-is-me victim card around his friends, then fine, but it wasn’t like Tony had to just sit back and take it.   Which, he supposed, was probably Rhodey’s point.  Or, one of them, anyway.

“Well, now it’s just awkward,” Tony observed.

“Get out,” Barnes snapped.  This time, no one bothered admonishing him, though their silence spoke volumes.

“Yeah.  Think we’ll be doing that,” Rhodey said, standing up and taking Tony’s plate out of his hands, depositing both in the sink.  “Thanks for dinner,” he said to the stiffly silent room.  “Let’s go,” he said to Tony. 

Tony pushed himself off the loveseat and followed Rhodey out the door.  Neither of them spoke on the walk back to where he’d parked the car, and he definitely didn’t look down the street to the bus stop. 

“I’ll drive,” Rhodey told him, nodding for Tony to toss him the keys. 

Tony fished them out of his jacket pocket, along with his phone, and threw them across the car to Rhodey’s waiting hand.  He tore the parking ticket off the Audi’s windshield and shoved it in the glove compartment as he slid inside, letting his head fall back against the head rest.

“So.  That went well,” Tony intoned with a thin falsetto that clearly communicated it had done anything but, as Rhodey started the car and switched on the heat.  Tony checked his messages, finding two from Pepper and a bunch of others to delete.  He stared down at the screen, then clicked on the internet and started typing into the search screen.

“Don’t do it, Tones.  I’m telling you, this isn’t your issue,” Rhodey reminded him, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel for emphasis, though he mostly just sounded tired and wrung out.

“Not doing anything,” Tony objected, clicking out of the internet screen.

“Show me your phone screen, then, Mr. Staying Out of It,” Rhodey countered.  Tony ignored him, of course.  “That’s what I thought.”

He looked down at the home screen on his phone, a photo of Dum-E and U wrapped in Christmas lights and tinsel with a wreath around Dum-E’s arm, with Pepper and Rhodey crowded around them, grinning, a Santa hat on Rhodey’s head.  Family, Tony thought, then brought up the internet screen again and clicked the cursor onto the search bar to finish typing.

Martinez hand surgeon New York.

Steve really had been good at art.

_“Our baby finally learned his colors and he’s goin’ off to college, Pa,” Tony faux-sniffed dramatically and wiped nonexistent tears from the corners of his eyes, as he finished bungee-cording Dum-E into the back of Rhodey’s car._

_“He’s great, Tony. Can’t believe you built him from that box of stuff.  Thought that was going to be a toaster or something, but he’s amazing.  Bet you get the highest grade in the class,” Steve replied with a smile, giving Tony a quick look before he turned away to secure the open trunk where Dum-E’s wheels jutted out, giving Rhodey’s dependable little Nissan a hell of a spoiler, if Tony did say so himself._

_“Uh, given.  This is the most advanced A.I. this side of the stuff the military—wrongly, obviously--thinks I shouldn’t know about.  Think he gets his looks from you, though.  You watch.  He’ll leave a line of broken hard drives in his wake, won’tcha, buddy?” Tony teased, patting one of Dum-E’s wheels as he grinned widely at Steve’s back._

_“I’ll take you out to celebrate tonight.  Anything you want out of the vending machines in the student center, it’s on me,” Steve offered with a faint, lopsided smile. “Sparing no expense for the engineering department’s top student.”_

_“Wow, all this, and a literal bag of chips.  You do know how to tempt me, Rogers.  But, ah, me and Bruce—shifty, nerdy, little guy? You met him at Rhodey’s that time?  Grad student. Biochem, don’t ask me why, he’s brilliant.  Not me-brilliant, but still.  Such a waste—though, he manages to get the best we—um, nevermind,” Tony broke off quickly with a shake of his hands.  “Anyway, point being, we’re going to celebrate the almost end of term with a Star Trek marathon.  Worst episodes only, starting with Spock’s Brain and plowing right through the pain until we get to The Way to Eden.  Rhodey’s bringing snacks, I’ve got champagne already chilling, and Bruce has, um, brownies. Too much sugar, don’t eat them.  Horrible.  So--you’re coming, right?”  Tony asked, when Steve straightened and pulled on one of the cords that kept the trunk from bobbing open._

_“Oh,” Steve said, a slight frown ghosting over his face before he looked away and tugged again at the taut cord.  “I—I got shift tonight, Tony.  Pulled a double, with Ryerson out. I can—maybe I can stop by.  On my break or something.”_

_“Fuck, really? Damn.  Well, yeah.  I mean, you should come.  If you can. Shit,” Tony bit out with a wince.  “This sucks. I wanted you to be there.”_

_“I’ll—well, I’ll try, okay?”  Steve replied, running a hand through his hair, mouth flattening.  “It’s okay, Tony.  Really.  Tell James and Bruce I said hello.  You have fun.  God knows, you’ve earned it.  I know how hard you worked on this.”_

_“We,” Tony corrected._

_“Don’t think pointing towards colored pencils counts, but I’m glad I could help a bit,” Steve agreed with a huff.   “You better get going, if you’re going to find a place to park.”_

_“Huh?  Oh, right,” Tony replied, though, for a moment, everything slowed to a near halt, and going anywhere was the last thing he wanted to do, but the world sped back up again before the feeling could really take root, and checked the time on his watch, and yeah, shit, he was going to be late if he didn’t get a move on._

_“Don’t park in one of the professor’s spots.  They get really upset about that,” Steve warned._

_“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tony said with a smirk, then tugged the keys out of his pocket.  “Hey, call Rhodey and tell him his car will be in the tow lot, would you?”_

_“Um, since I value my life, no,” Steve replied evenly.  “Think I’ll try to stay on James’ good side.  He, uh.  He offered to write me a letter, you know?  A recommendation.  Set me up with a recruiter.  I gotta get my GED before they’ll take me, but since mom…since mom’s gone, I was thinking about it.  Maybe.  I mean, not now.  Not like right away or anything.  Just, you know.  Later, maybe.  Could be a good career, someone like me.  They’ll help with college after, so.  Not that—I mean, I’m not really thinking that, just—just that they do.”_

_“Are you kidding me with this?  Now?  We said we’d talk about the Army thing after I finish grad school, which, as the large, beeping—shut-up, Dum-E, you overgrown boom box—robot in the back of my best friend’s crapmobile will attest, is not yet done,” Tony pointed out.  “Look, you can’t spring this on me now, Steve, when I have to make Short Circuit here demonstrate learning behavior, which, I might add, is something I apparently can’t get my boyfriend to demonstrate.  I said I’d help with college, and God knows, we won’t need the money once my Dad gets his head out of his ass.  Just, you know, give it time, okay?  Why is my best friend helping you, anyway?  He’s supposed to be on my side,” Tony protested with a flash of annoyance._

_“I still think you should let me talk to your father.  He’s just worried about you,” Steve offered. For probably the hundredth time._

_“That is one hundred percent not it,” Tony objected with a grimace.  “And no.  Trust me. Talking to Howard never goes well for anyone.  Do not, under any circumstances, try to talk to him.  That path leads to the Dark Side, believe me.   Look, if Howard is going to be an asshat about this, let him.  He’s not going to disown me, just fuck me over a bit in a vain, if predictable, attempt to establish dominance when the usual poo-flinging didn’t bring me in line quite fast enough.”_

_“What if he does?  Disown you, I mean?” Steve asked, head cocked to one side, brows drawn together in an expression of concern that was becoming all too familiar._

_“He won’t.  Much to his dismay, I’m his only kid. Well, that we know about for sure, anyway.  He’s too full of himself to leave the company to anyone with a different last name,” Tony said with a shrug.  “Besides, look….say he really went through with it.  Worst case, right?  So what?  We’d just…figure it out.  Like most people do, right?  Scrimp and save and eat those disgusting noodles until the world is able to appreciate my brilliance.  Simple.”_

_“Simple.  Right,” Steve huffed, though his shoulders relaxed and some of the tightness eased out of his features.  “James says this guy he knows could get me in a good unit.  Don’t be mad.  He’s just trying to help,” Steve argued with a firm jut of his jaw, skipping back to their original debate._

_“Well, he sucks at it,” Tony replied with a roll of his eyes.  Honestly, Rhodey was not being a good bro about this whole white-van-Uncle-Sam thing.  Army meant Steve leaving for long periods of time, and sure, there wasn’t much to do for G.I. Joe these days, but still.  He needed to have a nice, long, but very clear discussion with dear Rhodey-bear about not taking his things._

_“Besides, think about the uniform,” Steve suggested with a shrug, a wicked grin following quickly on its heels when Tony’s wandering gaze snapped back to Steve, mental images flashing across his mind, thanks so much unhealthy obsession with officers who were not gentlemen.  But, oh, hot damn, Steve would look amazing, stalking into one of the labs, all determined and shit, lifting Tony up in his arms while Tony tossed Steve’s cap into the—okay, fine, so he’d had a few thoughts in this area since Steve first broached the subject._

_“Think about the uniform, he says? Well, fuck.  Great. Great, Steve.  Just great. Now, I’m going to have an erection during my presentation, you ass,” Tony snorted, punching his knuckles against the solid bulk of Steve’s arm and giving Steve a side-eyed look.  “Though, to be fair, everyone in class would just assume it was narcissistically induced by my own sheer awesomeness.  Not the first time that’s happened, let’s be honest.”_

_Steve just rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth._

_“Don’t roll your eyes at me. That does it for you, too, and you know it.  You love it when I’m a pretentious asshole, which, luckily for you, is most of the time,” Tony pointed out._

_“Hey, watch it.  That’s my pretentious asshole you’re talking about there, mister,” Steve protested with a soft smile.  “And you’re not.  You just like people to think you are.”_

_“Oh, yeah?  So what am I, then?”  Tony inquired curiously._

_“A big softie who talks to his robots and thinks up ridiculous romantic fantasies about his boyfriend.  Don’t worry. I won’t tell,” Steve assured him.  “Your secret is safe with me.”_

_“No idea what you’re talking abo---ooout, Steve!  Stop it! Put me down!”  Tony yelped, when Steve grabbed him around the waist and lifted him into his arms, then spun him around, head thrown back with a whooping laugh that faded to a low chuckle against the side of Tony’s head.  “No, wait, don’t.  Forget robotics.  Never much liked that class.  Useless.  Pointless.  We’re all going back to pointy sticks and nice, round stones.  Nothing like a good stone.  Gonna build you a nice ax.  You’ll love it.”_

_“Go to class, Tony,” Steve admonished, letting Tony down slowly enough to slide down the front of his body, lingering just a bit long there before stepping back and patting the top of Rhodey’s hatchback with the flat of his hand._

_“Look, we’ll—we’ll talk about it later, okay?  The Army thing?” Tony requested, hands going around Steve’s waist as he pulled him close with a sharp tug at Steve’s hips._

_Like, much, much later, when he could treat Steve like Steve deserved to be treated, take him around the world, shower him with gifts and take all those worries that grew out of a life filled with need and barely getting by out of Steve’s head for good.  It had been fun, those first few weeks of trying to impress Steve the best way he knew how, which involve d flinging money at the situation.  Steve seemed to enjoy it, though he’d been more bemused by Tony’s antics than anything.  The giant teddy bear might have contributed to that, but Ursa Major was a great addition to Steve’s apartment, no matter what he said._

_If Howard would stop being such a dick about things, practically cutting Tony off when he found out about Steve, this wouldn’t even be an issue.  They could go back to having fun, and Steve would put away his concerned, frown-y face about the whole situation, and stop talking to Rhodey about things that weren’t how awesome Tony was.  Really, Tony had given Rhodey a list, and most of the items on it yet to come up, which was truly tragic.  He’d worked hard on that.  Footnotes and everything.  In fucking Word.  That kind of effort, and his bestie couldn’t even drop a mention of the time Tony won the third grade science fair?  What was the world coming to?_

_Howard had even threatened to pull the tuition money, which he wouldn’t do, Tony told himself.  Not really.  Howard would come around.  Tony wasn’t just bullshitting Steve with that.  Howard was just freaking out because Tony was doing something that didn’t have Howard’s patented Stark Seal of Begrudgingly Given Approval all over it, and something which, God forbid, might actually make Tony happy.  Couldn’t have that.   And now, Steve was worrying about it, which, fuck it all.  This sucked._

_“Okay, Tony.  We’ll talk later.  Not rushing into anything, after all.  Just thinking.  So, ah, good luck on your presentation,” Steve said in a placating tone.  “Think good thoughts. Dress blues. Camo.  Dog Tags.”_

_“You’re a menace, Rogers.  I’d teach Dum-E to jerk me off for the presentation--which, let’s face it, would give a whole new meaning to the concept of easy A--but I saw how long it took him to get the application of force principles right with those pencils you were handing him, and that’s a sacrifice to science I’m just not willing to make.  Hell of a learning behavior demonstration though,” Tony acknowledged with a devious grin and enjoying the blush that crept up Steve’s neck and onto his cheeks. “Hey, kiss for good luck?”_

_“You don’t need luck.  You’re brilliant, remember?  Go wow ‘em with your science stuff.  Just, maybe stand behind the lectern while you do it?”  Steve suggested, biting at the corner of his lip._

_“Helpful.  Thanks.  Come here, you,” Tony murmured, threading his hands up around Steve’s neck and through the fine, crisp hairs at the nape.  “Kiss me.”_

_“If you insist,” Steve breathed down at him, face softening, eyes going bright.  “My pretentious asshole.”_

_“Damn straight,” Tony snorted, brushing his lips across Steve’s.  “Don’t you forget it, either.”_

_“Never,” Steve promised, and captured Tony’s mouth in a searing kiss._


	5. Chapter 5

There was no logical reason why he was back at Steve’s apartment the next evening, other than latent masochistic tendencies, Tony supposed, a frustrated grimace marring his features as he looked up at Steve's building.

Except that he hadn’t slept last night. His head had been way too full of memories that he hadn’t let himself think about in years, and on the other side of it this morning, the idea of Steve just dropping off a stack of papers at the Tower’s lobby desk, making nice with the receptionist, and everything being neat and tidy and _done_ , just like that, like something routine and unremarkable, opened up some kind of empty, churning place in his gut that wouldn't go away no matter how many Tums he popped with his coffee this morning.

He’d told Pepper that closure would be good for him. Maybe he needed it more than he had realized or more than he had been willing to admit. Seeing Steve again...it had rattled him, that much was easy to parse, but the rest of it, the way he could draw the exact color of Steve's eyes to his mind, the way they got soft and crinkled at the corners when he really smiled, the current of feeling that still seemed to run between them, no matter how stretched thin it should be, how quickly the remembered burst of warmth could resurface when he thought about Steve bragging—yes, bragging, dammit—on Tony, everything was running circles through his head, and his subconscious was already busy happily offering every excuse it could.

We were young. We were stupid. Steve had never seen that kind of money in his life, and he knew all too well what it was like to want. That was a lifetime of security being offered to a barely nineteen year old on a silver platter, even if he had, apparently, managed to squander it somehow. Could he really blame Steve for taking it?

It must have seemed like a godsend, a way out, and Tony knew, he knew, that Steve had dreams, too. Used to go to those stupid free lectures the college offered to the unwashed masses, even if he had no idea what they were about and hung out in the back, face half hidden under a baseball cap, as if he was worried someone would recognize him and tell him he didn't belong. Tony could have assured him that literally no one had even noticed their janitor, but the idea that someone like Steve was so devoid of interest for the student population at MIT was entirely too depressing to contemplate, so he'd kept quiet. How easy was it for Tony to sit in condemnation of a choice Steve made when Steve had spent most of his life not having much of a choice on anything?

Understanding the motivation didn't exactly take the sting away, that much was true enough. A trip to Best Buy being more interesting than a lifetime with Tony was probably always going to leave a bitter taste in his mouth, but he could, at least, see how it must have been for Steve.

That last couple of months, they'd already been arguing more and more, mostly about things that at least tangentially related to money. Steve working all the time and never being around. Tony worrying about how he was going to cover tuition if his Dad really did follow through with his threat. He hadn't blamed Steve, of course. And Steve hadn't blamed him for the extra hours he was pulling trying to make ends meet when there were suddenly two of them draining the piggy bank. But...but.

Hell, their biggest fight had been over, what, God, he thought, rubbing at his temples with a short huff of breath. The stupid, generic laundry detergent that had ruined Tony's favorite vintage AC/DC t-shirt, which had somehow turned into a complete blow-up over everything else that was stressing them. They'd made up. They always did. But, the fractures had been there, slowly seeping in at the corners. Maybe Steve figured it wasn't going to work, take the money and run. Couldn't entirely blame him for that. Steve signed up for one thing when he started dating Tony Stark, and ended up suddenly with another mouth to feed. Probably not what he had in mind long-term.

Ah, rationalization, my old friend, Tony thought with a flat grimace, forehead creasing as he looked out the windshield at the crumbling front of the building, wishing, not for the first time today, that Rhodey didn't have an actual job that occasionally required him to do things that served the taxpayers.

This was a terrible idea. If Rhodey were here, he would have told Tony that this was a terrible idea, and then gone along with it, but Rhodey had taken his Jiminy Cricket roadshow back to DC for a couple of days, having made Tony promise not to do exactly what Tony was doing. He was pretty sure there had been a list. Going back over to Steve's was right under sleeping with Steve on the not-to-do list, he was fairly certain. At least he hadn't worked his way to the top yet, though the night was young, he thought with a long, semi-exaperated sigh.

He stepped out of the warmth of the car and into the chilly evening air. A steady stream of people moved along the sidewalk, mostly on their way home from work at this hour, giving Tony quick, curious looks that slid over him without really finding purchase. By the time he made it into the building and up to Steve’s floor, he was second-guessing the impulse to come down here and make some kind of grand ceremony out of this. He’d come this far, though, looking, he told himself firmly, for a goodbye that wasn’t filled with bewildered pain, one that he could finally leave in the past where it belonged. That was why he was here.

Definitely.

Probably.

Strong possibility that was a part of it, anyway.

Tony raised a hand to knock on Steve’s door, then lowered it, running it up and down his chest instead. This really was a terrible idea. He didn't need Rhodey to tell him that.

What was he doing? He was looking for some kind of absolution where there wasn’t any to be had, not really. This was going to be an exercise in disappointment, no matter how it went. What did he even want from Steve? He honestly wasn’t sure which would be worse at this point, the idea that this carefully crafted we’re-all-adults-here truce would fall to pieces or that it wouldn’t, and they really were in that place now where Tony was just a déjà-vu-snafu that needed fixing.

“Oh, hey, you that lawyer guy?” a voice called out from across the hall. Tony turned and realized that Steve’s neighbor was standing in his doorway, holding a Big Gulp cup that appeared to contain something a little more than just slurpee by the way the guy's words came out slurry and thick-tongued.

“Ah, I’m actually—“ Tony began.

“Steve said you might be by with the, ah, lawyer stuff. Here,” Neighbor Guy continued, reaching just inside his door, making a jingling sound as his hand dug around for whatever it was he was looking for. “You can wait inside. Steve’ll be back soon. Clockwork, that guy, am I right? What's Steve need a lawyer for anyhow? You're not scamming him, right? Doin' this pro boner or somethin'?”

“Pro bono,” Tony corrected. “Though, I feel obligated to point out that I've got a friend who would find you incredibly perceptive.”

“Hey, you know anyone that can help with a--a little, like, public intoxication thing? Frame job, man, I’m telling ya,” the man told him as he walked across the hall, sporting a key and opened Steve’s door while sucking his not-slurpee so hard it squeaked.

“Not really my area of expertise,” Tony said carefully, then almost laughed at the number of times he'd been intoxicated in public. People like him didn't get arrested for it, though, so his response was true enough, as far as it went. He just had his picture taken for the tabloids. Public shaming penalty and all that, he supposed.

“Huh? Oh, right, yeah, no problem,” Neighbor replied, flashing a watery, red-toothed smile. “Here ya go,” he said as he pushed open the door. “Homey, right? Steve, man,” he continued with a shake of his head and some kind of gesture with his slurpee that seemed to indicate Tony should go inside. “Tell 'im hi for me, okay?”

“Will do,” Tony agreed, stepping inside Steve’s apartment as his neighbor shuffled back towards his own apartment with a quick, salute-like wave over his shoulder.

Tony looked around the empty space, then turned in a circle and started for the door. He really should wait outside. Or just leave. Go back to the Tower and wait for tomorrow’s mail to show up on his desk with divorce papers neatly tucked between the latest invitation to decline and shareholder reports he wouldn’t read. He sat down on the loveseat instead, looking around the apartment, though this time with a slightly different eye. His first impression--small, dingy, poor--was still true enough, but like last night, when it was filled with friends and food, he could see bits of Steve in the crevices.

The patchwork quilt. That had been his mom’s, laying across the back of her sofa, Tony recalled, and then later, over her feet in the hospital, when she was all blue-veined skin and sharp angles. She had smiled at him, eyes bright with tears and made him promise to take care of Steve while she clutched Tony's hand with wasted, bony fingers. Easier promise to give than to keep, as it turned out. I tried, he thought. I would have. But, he hadn't, and that was as true as anything else.

The photos scattered on the mismatched bookshelves, images and pieces of Steve’s life, sans Tony, of course. The neat stacks of clothes, plaids and solids, nothing flashy. Piles of dog-eared books everywhere, next to the bed and lining the walls, some with the covers torn off, some with plastic over them and their Dewey decimal sticker still visible, rejects from some library. Tony got up and walked over to one of the bookshelves and ran a finger along the spines, using it to pry out a copy of The Hobbit. He flipped it open, and sure enough, his scrawled inscription was still there.

 _Roads go ever, ever on_  
_Under cloud and under star,_  
_Yet feet that wandering have gone_  
_Turn at last to home afar._

_Love, Tony_

God, he really had been a pretentious asshole, Tony thought with a chagrined huff. He put the book back, then glanced over the other items on the shelves. One of the small, glass vases that sat on the shelf drew his eye. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. It was slightly off-center, one lip hanging a bit lower than the other, but a fiery red-orange, with gold droplets caught inside the glass, made somehow all the more interesting for being less than perfect. Tony studied it for a long moment before putting it back where it stood next to several others in a neat arrangement, seemingly the apartment's only concession to something that was solely for beauty.

Nothing good ever comes from snooping, wasn't that what they said? He wasn't even sure what he was looking for exactly.  Answers to questions his mind was still trying to form, that was part of it, sure.  But there was also a desire to know, to know Steve, this Steve, the one who went off to war and came home to the same life he left, with everything except Tony in it.  It wasn't as if Steve was going to tell him anything, not with Barnes playing Gatekeeper to Nat's Keymaster, like two angry, vodka-swilling sentries.  It wasn't an excuse, or even really an explanation, for why he didn't step right back outside Steve's door and wait like a normal person, but it was a reason.  Since he was already going to hell anyway, he gingerly opened the lid to one of the cardboard banker boxes and peered inside. Rows of folders were lined up in some kind of order, probably vaguely chronological, since it started with Army and ended in tab after tab labeled VA/Medical in Steve’s neat print. Tony closed the lid without looking further, a frown creasing his forehead and something that felt a lot like guilt, however misplaced it might be, making his stomach clench and turn over. What happened to Steve was not his fault. Hazard of Army life and all that.

Not his fault at all. Really. That seemed mostly, almost true, but when he closed his eyes, he could see Steve's hand shaking trying to get the key into the lock, a simple task that had become an accomplishment at some point.

It had felt good, winning at life. Showing up here in his fancy car and bespoke suit and confirming everything he’d wanted to believe about what life after Tony had looked like for Steve, but there was winning and then there was seeing folder after folder of what it looked like to struggle, and why? Why had Stevev even going into the Army in the first place? All that money, he surely hadn’t needed to, so was it some sense of duty? Maybe, okay, fine. 9/11 had changed a lot of things, Tony could freely admit, so maybe it had transformed Steve’s practicality into a calling, who knew? Still, whatever the reason, winning at life looked a hell of a lot more like not playing when you had a box of medical forms staring you in the face.

The next box, because in for a penny, in for a pound, was helpfully labeled “School,” in big, black marker on the outside, and had a number of glossy pamphlets, campus maps, financial aid forms, and in one pristine folder by itself, Steve’s acceptance letter from Brooklyn College. He would have been proud of that, Tony thought with a sharp, bright burst of tightness in his chest. No more sitting in the back of a lecture hall in a beat up ball-cap.

The final box was on the bottom shelf, pushed back against the wall, and Tony had to get down on the floor to reach it, which took this to a whole new level, he knew, because there was looking and then there was just flat-out invading someone's privacy. The box was Schrodinger's cat, both alive and dead, until he opened it, and now was the time to leave kitty the fuck alone, but curiosity and cats and all that. He curled his legs under him and pulled it out from the shelf onto the floor. Unlike the other boxes, this one had the feeling of not being regularly updated or rifled through. Storage, Tony thought, lifting the lid off, and half expecting a puff of dust in the face for his efforts.

Actually, a puff of dust to the face would have been far better than the brick wall that slammed into him, knocking his breath out of his lungs, when he looked down and saw his own face smiling back at him. It was a picture from his birthday, him in one of those shiny, cone-shaped hats with the elastic band around his chin, curly hair sticking out at all angles, a party horn cocked jauntily between his lips as he grinned at the camera. Underneath that photo were others, some of just him, some of him and Steve, some with the whole gang. Most he recognized. They’d once graced the wall above Steve’s mattress, a mishmashed collage of their lives that was better to look at than any artwork he’d ever seen.

A black and white speckled composition notebook was under the collection of pictures. He opened it and flipped through the first few pages of what appeared to be Steve’s attempt at managing a budget for them, because there was a list of the rent, utility bills, followed by an entry for food, a bus pass, the highway robbery of a laundromat they trudged to each week, and then one marked “Tony’s coffee--$85????” and a small doodle of a figure who was clearly meant to be Tony drinking out of a mug made of hundred dollar bills. He couldn’t help the small smile that formed at that. Steve had never quite understood Tony’s love of coffee or disdain for the watered-down, home-brewed kind, though he'd never objected to Tony's obsession and had actually almost seemed to enjoy indulging it, ring in the coffee grounds, notwithstanding.

Folded in between the pages of the notebook was a list of academic and technical scholarships that had been printed off from the dregs of MIT’s financial aid system, clearly meant for Tony, a separate list of businesses and phone numbers with hourly wage notations listed out beside them that made Tony wonder if Steve had been job hunting, a good five or so years’ worth of some kind of ledger entries of anywhere from twenty to a hundred dollars, and Tony’s aborted attempt to fill out the much-maligned FAFSA tucked into the back of the binder, like some weird repository of their financial woes while Howard was being the world's biggest dick.

God, how he’d hated that stupid, fucking FAFSA form, Tony remembered with a frown. Granted, he’d probably spent more time complaining about it than actually trying to fill it out, but the whole thing had just been galling, having to squeeze his family’s income into the little boxes while Howard held the threat of cutting him off teetering over his head, sword of Damocles style. All he'd wanted was to take care of Steve, and he'd ended up being more of a burden than anything, not that Steve treated him like that, but it had been painfully clear who was bringing in income and who was drinking it down, one cup of joe at a time.

In retrospect, he could have been a bit more helpful instead of just assuming that there was a bright future at the end of their rainbow. He'd ranted and railed at the injustice of it all, cut back where he could. That had seemed painful, at the time, but now, he wondered how his tightening of the proverbial belt had really looked to Steve. Little rich boy, playing at being poor like it was one of those charity-vacations the well-meaning, well-off went on these days, going native for just long enough to feel better about himself, but never actually having to internalize any of what Steve dealt with. Easy to judge when everything is always easy, Tony could admit, at least now, if only because he wanted to, and what did that tell him?

He'd talked about getting a TA job, but hadn't really followed through on it, what with his professors failing to be as luminously brilliant as he was, as if that somehow made it beneath him. Then, Howard had capitulated on the tuition, and it hadn't seemed like such a big deal. Things would work out. Then...they hadn't, much to his shock, though he couldn't help but wonder how self-serving that surprise really was. Should he have seen it coming? They'd had problems, but nothing had ever seemed insurmountable, though, okay, sure, there had been issues. A...distance, that was the right word, that cropped up about the time Howard finally stopped being a douche about the tuition. That should have been something of a release valve for both of them, but it had seemed to have the opposite effect, for some reason.

Under the notebook was a cigar box, one of those cheap, yellow, wooden ones with the shiny, gold edges. Inside, a white handkerchief with his initials sewn in red threads at one corner was wrapped around a small sprig of flowers. He recognized it as the one he’d shoved in Steve’s hand at his mom’s funeral, and the wispy, dried flowers were the gesture they’d carried with them that day, both too young to have to be that old. A dark red leather ring box sat in one corner of the cigar box, though Tony didn’t touch it. He knew what was inside, and if he looked at that now, he’d probably run from the building.

A postcard with a shot of Coney Island’s coaster was under the handkerchief, next to a matchbook from the cheap motel they’d stayed in during their brief drive to Vermont for the romantic civil union in front of a justice of the peace. He tugged out what sat under that and held it up by the edges, careful not to crush it. Steve’s half of their photobooth strip, one with Tony’s wide-eyed stare caught by the flash and one with his head buried into Steve’s chest, smiling from underneath Steve’s chin, stared back at him, faded and slightly yellow with time, but still almost bursting from the white-bordered sides with happiness, like only part of what they were could be captured.

Well, shit, Tony thought, closing the cigar box lid with a soft thump. A stroll down memory lane was not on today’s agenda, but there it was, laid bare, these soft, secret places best kept hidden in boxes on bookshelves and shoved in the back of drawers.

He should stop. Put this back and go home. Wait it out, then hand it off to the lawyers and let this be done, once and for all. Rhodey was right. This was some serious through-the-looking-glass territory, right here. A sense of wrongness was prickling up and down his spine, niggling at the back of his head like a constant buzzing sound. Partly from his own actions, sure, but the whole thing, this box of relics, Steve’s comments last night, Barnes’ and Natasha’s righteous indignation, the whole fucking mess of it was off, like everyone was playing at opposite day, but he hadn't gotten the memo. Nothing about this box fit the narrative that had been sounding in Tony's head all these years, like he'd stumbled into an earlier draft of a story that had long-since changed.

He let out a long sigh, then leaned over the box again, fingering at the rest of the odd assortment. There was a switch with wires hanging out of it that he was fairly sure he’d used on something, though he couldn’t quite place what it had once been intended to do. Two faded to nearly unreadable ticket stubs for a terrible movie they’d gone to see, though they'd spent the better part of the last half of it making out, so it could've been Oscar-worthy for all Tony knew. A bright, blue box of checks from a bank that was long defunct. A copy of his explanation for his thesis project that he’d handed to the professors during his demonstration with a fat, red A on the front. The Time magazine with him on the cover from a few years ago. A torn-edged copy of the Popular Mechanics article about his ‘bots. And a stack of envelopes with a large rubber band around them in the back corner that practically had a 'Read Me' sticker on the front.

He pulled the stack of plain, white envelopes from the box, and tugged the band off, trying to keep them in order while he leaned them against the side of the box. He took the one off the top and turned it over. The front of the envelope was blank, though it wasn’t sealed, so obviously not private, except for the box on the bottom of the bookshelf in the locked apartment thing, he told himself with no small amount of self-reprobation, as he opened it and pried the sheet of paper loose.

As it turned out, he was just getting his mail years too late.

_Dear Tony,_

_Our CO says we have to write someone back home. Good for morale, or so he says. Buck’s in his sniper unit, and he’s writing Nat. Thor’s off in some musty church library somewhere. So, looks like you drew the short straw. Of course, I’m not going to actually send this, but figure it can’t hurt to tell you a bit about things over here._

_It’s strange over here. Hotter than hell during the day. Cold at night though. Food’s terrible. You’d hate the coffee. Everyone hates the coffee. You’d probably turn one of the tanks into a mobile cappuccino machine._

It went on like that for a few paragraphs, sharing meaningless details of Army life that amounted to little more than a glimpse of what it must have been like, before it ended with Steve’s scrawled signature at the bottom. Clearly written because he had to, though Tony couldn’t help a slight, wavering grin at the tank thing.

The rest of the letters were largely the same, at least until about three years in by the dates at the top, when the tone started to shift, the letters getting longer and longer, filled with everything Steve was seeing over there, the frustration slowly ebbing to anger, exhaustion and fear leaking out of the words like a gaping wound, until the last letter, which was two sentences long and said more than any of the others.

_I think you were right about us. I miss you a lot though._

Tony stared down at the words scrawled over the thin, blue line on the paper, bleeding through it to the line beneath, like Steve’s hand hadn’t been steady when he wrote it.

Why, why, why? The question beat through him with each shuddering breath. His hands were shaking the paper, making a crinkling sound, and something salty and wet brushed over his lips. He wiped the back of his hand across his face and blinked with something like horror at the box, a warm, coppery taste filling his mouth and pumping through his veins, offering fight or flight and no in- between.

Steve had missed him. Then. Years ago now, but there it was, fragile and hidden, like the paper it was written on, but unmistakably there. What did that mean? That Steve regretted things? That he wished he'd made a different choice? They had both been young and stupid, God knows. About a lot of things, and no reason their marriage got to be sacrosanct. Hell, Tony practically had Phone-a-Terrible-Decision as one of his lifelines, he'd made enough of them. He was probably projecting a tad too much onto two lines of battlefield introspection that Steve had never intended for him to read, but it was like a splinter caught in his teeth that he couldn't dig out,worrying at it until he couldn't think of anything else.

What was he right about? What was Steve thinking about years later and a world away, trying to tell this Tony who would never hear it that he had been right, that he was missed, like some message in a bottle that was never meant to leave the bottom of the ocean.

He looked at the box of unanswered questions until there was nothing left that wasn't committed to memory, then stacked the letters back and wound the band around them again, shoving them into their space in the box and closing the lid on the whole thing. He slid the box back onto the shelf, towards the back, like it had been before he had the gall to touch something that probably, for the sake of his sanity, should have stayed buried.

Why keep that stuff, though? Everything in this shitty excuse for an apartment was efficient and largely perfunctory, serviceable items Steve had clearly picked up only when the need arose, yet here was a box of less than useless crap that he'd clearly stored and hauled around for ten years. Not that Tony could talk, considering he had a drawer full of much the same less than useless crap, but still. The whole, ungainly visage was winding his head up and taking his thoughts places they didn't belong.

Nothing made sense.

What the hell did he even mean, that Tony had been right? Obviously, probably true, but about what? What was so damn important that he needed to write about it from a world away, at a time when Steve was clearly struggling and scared, and dammit all to hell, there was an image to keep Tony up nights.

Tony pushed himself up off the floor and brushed off his slacks, straightening his jacket and running a finger through his hair while his mind fought for some kind of purchase, thoughts scrabbling around like they couldn't find a place to settle.

The thing was, he had his own drawer of mementos back in the workshop, and he knew damn well why he did, however much he didn't want to admit it. The idea that Steve might have the same, might have kept these things for the same reason Tony had Marvin and the drawing of Dum-E Steve had given him for his birthday, that ridiculous Star Trek ornament that needed a new battery and probably to be less homoerotic, and the other two photos from their honeymoon wrapped inside a thin, crisp page of rubbings from some of the more elaborate grave markers at the Granary that Steve had done on their historical jaunt around the city and a picture of the entire gang wearing truly obnoxious tricorn hats in front of the harbor holding empty bottles of Snapple, it just...he didn't know what to do with that possibility. The desire to discard it entirely surfaced first, but he couldn't quite manage to do that. Both of them kept pieces of the other, neither willing to let go completely, and Steve had missed him.

These new tendrils of information were winding their way through his head, invaders in a once-ordered land, and as much as a part of him wanted to reject the thoughts as meaningless, or at least less meaningful than some deep, dark corner of his brain wanted to make them, he couldn't dismiss them when they were stored so carefully, huddled and secreted away, but _kept_. God, they'd been not letting go of each other for years. Maybe this, not the paperwork shenanigans, but having to see each other again, see each other in ways they perhaps never really had, maybe this was always their end.

Their end.

Fuck.

He really should call Rhodey.

He was half way to seriously considering reaching for his phone when his head snapped up. Honestly, his first impulse when he heard the key grate into the lock was to hide, which was both ridiculous and impractical, given the relative lack of hiding spots in Steve's tiny closet of an apartment. Steve shuffled in, wearing the same set of work clothes he'd been wearing the other day when Tony ambushed him on the street, ground to a stop and gaped wide-eyed at Tony for a moment, looking around the rest of the apartment uncertainly, like someone might jump out and shout 'Worst Surprise Ever,' at any moment.

“So. This is awkward,” Tony observed with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

“Gonna have to start helping with the rent if you keep showing up,” Steve said without missing a beat. “What are you doing here, Tony?” he asked in the same weary tone from last night. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door, then walked over to the kitchen and started putting what looked like leftovers from his lunch away. “I said I'd drop the papers by tomorrow. Matt's on his way over, we'll go over everything, get 'em signed. You really don't need to look over my shoulder.”

“That wasn't what—that really wasn't what I was doing,” Tony replied, the words coming out more grating than he meant them, but every part of him was still live-wired over Steve's little past-life goody box, on edge like he was waiting for something to spark, half afraid it would, half afraid it wouldn't.

“Then what is this?” Steve demanded, probably reasonably, but the vaguely accusatory tone sent pinpricks down Tony's spine. Tony rubbed a hand over his temples and let his eyes fall shut for a moment, trying to clear his head, but all he saw were words that made no sense, just a discordant mess of letters and photos and whys that probably had an answer, just not the one he wanted.

“Just...last night was kind of terrible,” Tony began rather begrudgingly.

Steve gave him a long look, but didn't argue, just nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah, it was. I'm—I'm sorry. For runnin' out. I shouldn't have just left like that. I just—I wasn't expecting to see you again, and then you were here , and everyone was eating and trying to, you know...” he trailed off, waving a hand in the air.

“Trying to not be total dicks because we hurt each other ten years ago?” Tony offered softly.

“Yeah, that,” Steve agreed with a rough, brittle kind of laugh. “Buck give you a hard time?”

“He was all politeness,” Tony replied with a quirk of his mouth. Steve gave an understanding look to the ceiling and nodded. “Look, Steve....I realize it technically doesn't quite explain what I'm doing squatting in your apartment, but I guess I...I didn't want to have it end like that, either,” Tony admitted. “Did you? We already took that exit ten years ago, and I don't think it did either of us any favors. Everything that happened between us...I mean, there were some good times, too, right? Before everything went to shit.”

“Yeah,” Steve responded slowly, eyes fixed on Tony the way he used to when he would draw him, like he was trying to see something in just the right way. “There were. Lots of them.”

“Okay, so—so, right. Exactly,” Tony confirmed, momentarily thrown off by Steve's answer. “And then I accidentally let your neighbor unlock your apartment, even though I'm not your lawyer—your building security really leaves a lot to be desired, quite frankly---and here we are,” Tony explained. Sort of. Close enough for horseshoes, grenades and exes.

“Accidentally?” Steve asked, cocking his head in a questioning gesture. “Nevermind. Its fine, Tony. Forget it. So, you, what? Want to...” Steve let the words trail off with a quick shake of his head. He looked down at the counter, hands going to his hips in the Steve-is-deciding-something pose that Tony remembered so well, then dragged his eyes back up to Tony. “There's a coffee shop down the street. Want to get something?”

“Sure,” Tony heard himself say too quickly. “You know how I feel about my coffee.”

“That its both a religion and a food group?” Steve teased, a smirk shifting over his face before it fell off, letting that carefully neutral look that Tony was coming to hate creep back onto Steve's face. “Come on. Get your coat.”

Tony followed Steve down the stairs and out the door to the street. It was that almost-night time when the streetlights were just flickering on, neon signs burning in shop windows, and everything seemed a bit too impatient for the day to end. He hunched his coat around his shoulders, and kept his head down to watch for the inevitable deeper-than-it-looks puddle that mocked the city's futile attempts at drainage.

The coffee shop was warm and dark, with cozy corners filled with overstuffed chairs and button-backed sofas, trying way too hard to look like something out of a television show without actually looking like something out of a television show. They got their drinks and sat down at one of the small, decoupaged tables in the back underneath a framed poster of Prague's Charles Bridge with ghostly fog rolling past the feet of the statues that lined it. Steve would have liked Prague, with its art and music and vibrancy layered on top of the old stones and legends. Tony could have explained how the astronomical clock worked, and Steve could have told him why it was beautiful. But, that was a different life, and here they were, at their end again, trying for something they could both walk away from a little easier.

For years now, it _had_ been a different life, this impossibility, something lost long ago, and one box of old junk and suddenly, it was like he could see it, just out of the corner of his eye when he turned his head. Gone when he looked, but there in a way that it hadn't been yesterday.

“So,” Steve started, then took a drink of his coffee.

“So,” Tony repeated, sipping his espresso.

“Well, I'm glad we could have this little talk,” Steve whispered, leaning forward and bending low over the table.

“Yeah, I know. I'm trying. This isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week, you know?” Tony pointed out.

“Well, gosh, thanks for penciling divorcing me again in,” Steve said with a nod and another sip, though the corners of his mouth quirked up and his tone was light, almost teasing.

“I plan to repeat seventh grade next week. Got the puberty re-do the week after that. Trying to hit the high points,” Tony replied, a grin tugging at his lips when Steve blew out a puff of laughter and dipped his head in a nod.

“Staying busy, good,” Steve nodded with faux-seriousness.

“Actually,” Tony started, not quite able to help himself. “I've been working on a clean energy project for a little over a year now. The Board is currently in the thanks, but no thanks, column, SI being a weapons manufacturer and all.”

“Well, good thing other people telling you what to do always goes so well,” Steve intoned evenly, eyebrows raised.

“Exactly,” Tony agreed, taking another drink. “Pepper's running interference for me—which, thanks for getting the mea culpas, by the way. Though, fair warning, Pepper and Nat hit it off, so you might want to, I don't know, change your name, buy supplies, move to Montana. Just a suggestion.”

“Nat told me,” Steve laughed. “Compound on the icy tundra, it is then. Seems a reasonable reaction.”

“Definitely,” Tony acknowledged, grinning back. Safe territory, then. He could do this. He could do this and have his coffee and not ask about why Steve kept all that stuff or why Steve wrote letters to him instead of someone else or what the holy fuck he had been right about.

“Tell me about your project. Energy? Like for ...for power?” Steve asked almost haltingly, like he was trying out the words.

“Power, yes, though that's just the beginning,” Tony began, feeling himself warming to the topic. “It's a self-sustaining reactor that runs clean. No emissions. No pollution. No carbon footprint. Expensive to produce at the moment, though the capacity more than makes up for the cost. Still, I'd like to get that reduced as we expand. It could mean a huge shift, particularly for third world countries where clean drinking water is still an obstacle. See, most power sources need water as part of the process, but not this one. And water treatment and delivery, sewage disposal, those kinds of things require massive amounts of energy, but the infrastructure, food production and delivery and disease management that comes from clean water sources is a necessity for development. This way, uh...well, it could, you know, really be good.”

“Wow,” Steve remarked, blinking at him and bobbing his head. “That sounds amazing, Tony. Wow.”

Of course, Steve didn't want to hear about his ideas for revolutionizing the world's energy consumption and potable water issues over coffee.

“Sorry,” Tony said quickly. “I get carried away sometimes, I know.”

“Ah, you always did. Don't apologize,” Steve replied with a shrug. “Get you going on something and you'd talk yourself into fixing whatever it was. Used to love to listen to you. Figured, if you could make someone like me understand, you could probably sell the idea to anyone. Like that...what was it you called it? Smart landmine?”

“Sentinel landmine,” Tony corrected. “You remember that?” he asked, unable to keep the startled surprise out of his voice. That had been an idea that had never quite made it to production, but he'd spent long hours talking it through out loud while Steve sketched.

“The thought kind of stayed with me over there,” Steve admitted with a deprecating laugh, flexing his hand a bit above the tabletop.

“Oh, right. Of course, I—I didn't mean—that was stupid of me--” Tony stammered.

“It's fine, Tony,” Steve cut in. “Hey, you said you'd already built one of these reactor things?” Steve asked, clearly changing the subject, for which Tony couldn't help but be grateful. Every time his mind touched on the thought of something literally blowing up underneath Steve, it sort of derailed itself into uselessness, the mental equivalent of Gandalf shouting 'None Shall Pass,' or something.

“About to go online in a few weeks,” Tony told him, not without some pride. “Just a prototype, but it's a start.”

“So, ah, you. You're working. School. That's good. The job-school thing, I mean. Good. Anything else new?” Tony asked around a wince. God, he sounded like a fucking asshole. What was he right about? What needed to be bared to a letter no one would read on the eve of what must have been something terrible? What made Steve miss Tony at the moment when the line between life and death over there must have been the thinnest? Every answer just seemed to be another question, but he couldn't make himself stop asking.

“Not much, really. Sam's got me doing this glassblowing thing for veterans, Healing With Fire. So far, I've managed vase, smaller vase, lopsided vase, broken vase and glob of glass,” Steve chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Think I'm getting better at it, though.”

“I saw them. Your vases, I mean. I liked lopsided guy the best. Way better than the crap Pepper has me buying. You should see some of it. Honestly, I'm pretty sure one of the new canvases is just a blank canvas, and no one wants to be the first person to say, hey, isn't that just a blank canvas, so we all pretend we think its deep and meaningful,” Tony shrugged, giving Steve a slight, deprecating roll of his eyes. “Never much cared about art, you know. Present company's efforts excluded, of course.”

He hadn't meant to say that, but Steve's surprised, pleased smile met the words, and he wouldn't take them back for anything.

“You say you don't like art, but I've seen your building. It's beautiful. You can see, maybe Lautner's influence, I think? With the organic shapes and structural gymnastics...And the location...right there by the viaduct at 42nd, with Grand Central and the tunnels...like history meeting the future. Even the SI weaponry, there's an aesthetic there,” Steve countered, words almost tumbling over each other in a way that told Tony that Steve had given this thought before, considered it, Tony's things and their beauty, and that was...he didn't know that that was.

He had started this thing with some small, dark part of him wanting Steve to see it, to bask in what he'd forgone, to regret, but he hadn't considered what it would feel like to have Steve's joy at what he'd created offered so freely.

Tony blinked back the burning sensation in his eyes and glanced around the small coffee shop at the other patrons hovered over laptops and smartphones, one even with an actual book in her hands, chewing on the corner of one of those free library bookmarks.

What the fuck was he right about?

“Yeah, well. Architects did most of that. I just paid,” Tony replied, though that wasn't entirely true, and he didn't know why he was even saying it. “You should come by and see it sometime,” Tony heard himself say, apparently pulling thoughts from the depths of hell now.

“Uh, tomorrow. I'll see it then, I mean. When I bring the papers,” Steve reminded him.

“Right. Right. Of course,” Tony said quickly. Because, of course, tomorrow Steve was coming to the Tower with divorce papers in some weird reversal of last time around, when Tony had shown up at their shithole apartment with papers and Jarvis , seething with pain and disbelief, so much damn disbelief, but Steve hadn't even bothered to try to deny he'd taken the money. Hard to do when you're surrounded by your ill-gotten gains, Tony supposed.

“Speaking of, I should probably head back to the apartment. Matt's supposed to meet me there in a bit,” Steve said, making a show of looking down at his watch before he let his eyes flit over Tony again, then back at the dregs of his coffee cup. “This was nice, Tony. I'm glad we did this.”

This was it, Tony realized with a stuttering grind of thoughts. They were going to shake hands and go their merry ways, and everything would settle back into place. His whole life would re-slot itself along the same track he'd been on, with nothing but the loss of a few days' productivity to show for apparently being married to Steve for a decade. It seemed so wrong, that this could recede without leaving a visible mark on his life, the way it had scored across his life the first time. He should be glad for it, but he couldn't quite manage to wrap his head around the dissonance to get there.

“Yeah. Nice,” Tony agreed flatly.

Steve was getting up from the table, his chair scraping over the floor as he did like an announcement. He was going to go back to his life, his bad hand that wouldn't let him draw anymore, his job that he probably did with the same pride as he did everything else, his friends, who loved him, and his box of circuitry and letters and pieces of Tony that he'd kept for himself in a far too familiar way.

He had missed Tony, though. There was that. Whatever else there was, there was that.

“Steve,” Tony called out, reaching out a hand to place a waylaying hand on Steve's arm. _I missed you, too._ “Take care of yourself,” he managed, the words scraping themselves out of his suddenly dry throat.

Steve frowned down at him for a moment, then his face went soft, the lines that sometimes crept around the corners of his eyes smoothing out. “You, too, Tony,” Steve replied, placing his hand over Tony's and giving it a slight squeeze.

Tony let his hand fall away, or Steve moved out from under it, he wasn't sure which, though it left him staring after Steve with his hand hovering in the space that suddenly seemed to be slowly draining of warmth and sound and whatever it was that had almost been.

They were always an almost. Probably better for both of them that way. Almost in love, almost happy, almost civil again, almost nothing and almost everything.

“Your neighbor is a drunken menace, by the way,” Tony burst out as he watched Steve's back maneuver through the maze of tables and strategically shabby chairs towards the door.

“Do not try your solution to problem neighbors,” Steve implored with a laugh, tossing Tony a half-smile over his shoulder as he pushed the door to the coffee shop open, making the bell hanging over it jingle merrily above the hum of conversation clanking of cups.

“Hey, that worked!” Tony shouted back, watching Steve shake his head and hunch his shoulders against the wind outside the large glass window that boasted organic, sustainably sourced coffee beans.

He picked up his nearly empty cup and swirled the dark liquid around before swallowing it down. So, that had gone well. They'd managed civil. Left things on good terms, friendly without letting himself get pulled back through a door that had been closed for longer than he'd known. He should feel better about everything.

Rhodey would be proud. Well, once he got past the yelling at Tony coming back here again without him and rummaging through Steve's things like a garage-sale early-bird. But, eventually, definitely proud. It was done. Over. Steve would drop the paperwork off tomorrow, the lawyers would take it from there, and Tony never had to worry about this again.

But, he'd been right about something.

And Steve had missed him.

Steve had missed him, and there was a stack of letters in a box that screamed regret, and Tony wasn't going to be able to un-see that.

Tony leaned back in the chair, bouncing a little as one leg lifted off the bundle of napkins someone had shoved under it to balance it out. He could leave it alone, go back to his life and let this week be a lesson in crossing your T's and dotting your I's.

He looked down at the empty espresso cup, and thought of the carefully laid out budget Steve had tried to manage, and how strange the things Tony took for granted, like overpriced coffees, must have seemed to someone used to trying to make rent and find a way to eat on a paycheck that stopped somewhere between the two.

Maybe he'd judged Steve a bit too harshly, in a way. He could concede that much. He knew, in hindsight, at least, that he'd idealized eking out an existence in a way that only someone born to privilege, who has never known the ache in your stomach from skipping a meal you couldn't afford or what it was like to watch a parent work long past when their health should have allowed it. He'd been thinking about their future, and, by the look of the list of phone numbers and hourly pay in that ledger, Steve had apparently been trying to figure out a way to keep food on the table and the lights on in their crappy, if adorable, little love nest.

In the end, it was the switch that tipped the scales. The stupid switch that didn't even work without a circuit and power, but Steve had kept it, all this time, because Tony built it. There wasn't any other reason for it. Everything else, he could find some explanation for that made at least a modicum of sense, but the damn switch was just there, doing nothing but taking up space, and yet, with the tiny bit of space Steve had managed to carve out for himself, he filled part of it with a piece of junk Tony made ten years ago.

Tony dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone, hitting the familiar number. It rang four times and blessedly went to the reprieve of voicemail. He closed his eyes and let his head fall to the cradle of one hand where his elbow banged onto the table, making his empty espresso cup jump.

“Hey there Rhode-runner. Just wanted to let you know that everything's fine here. All good. No reason to worry. When you get back in town, you, me, Pep and Happy are all going out, blow off some steam, okay? Okay. So, great. See you soon. Oh, and also, I'm about to do something stupid, which we really all saw coming, let's face it, so there's that. Okaythanksbye,” Tony finished in a long rush of air, then clicked off the phone.

“ _Oh, God, harder, Steve, harder! There, there! Right there! Oh, yeah, baby, that's it, fuck me, fuck me, fuck my ass 'til I come!” Tony shouted against the kitchen wall._

“ _What...are you doing?” Steve asked tentatively as he paused in the middle of pushing open the apartment door._

“ _Your neighbor is a homophobic asshat,” Tony said to the back of the refrigerator. “Ooooohhhhh, yeah, like that, baby, I can take it, come on, let me have that big, beautiful cock of yours!” Tony yelled, slamming a fist against the wall. “Where have you been anyway? You're late.”_

“ _I, ah, had an errand to run after work. Nothin' big. Stopped at the store,” Steve said, shutting the door in a hurry and depositing the bag of what looked like that crappy laundry detergent that Tony swore was half-lye on top of the small, yellow table next to a spool of copper wire, two switches, a half-built exciter, a pair of pliers and what had once been the RF power amplifier from WMBR's transmitter on top of the Eastgate building. Late night jazz was just going to have to wait tonight._

“ _Please...please just stop...saying dirty things to the wall,” Steve pleaded in a strained voice. “Thought you were filling out those forms.”_

“ _Working on it,” Tony replied, pointing at the financial aid forms that were spread across the mattress where he had, in all fairness, filled in his name._

“ _You could go see your dad. Talk to him. He's in town for that conference thing, right?” Steve suggested. “He might, you know, be more willing to listen. Now.”_

“ _Why, did his heart suddenly grown three sizes today? No. Trust me, I'm having more luck with Friendly Freddy's opinion of our arrangement,” Tony replied, shooting an annoyed grimace at the wall, behind which the offending Fred was probably jerking off to last March's Big Busted Beauties to prove his hetero street cred._

“ _Can you not antagonize our neighbor?” Steve implored with a sigh that didn't seem all that fussed about it, in Tony's opinion._

“ _He started it,” Tony argued with a slight pout, canting his head towards the door._

“ _Did he say somethin' to you?” Steve asked more pointedly. Tony did love it when the Brooklyn slipped into Steve's accent. Made him want to buy an egg-cream and rail about the Dodgers move to L.A._

“ _No, but he thought it. I could tell,” Tony said, banging a fist against the wall three times in quick succession. “Yes! Yes! Oh, God, yes!” he shouted. “Really, Meg Ryan has nothing on me,” Tony remarked, turning around to face Steve, a wicked grin playing across his face. “So...what should we do this evening? Parcheesi? You beat me at Risk, so we're obviously never playing that again. X-Files marathon? Got the new Popular Mechanics to red pen. Or, we could try that thing we tried last night again. You pick.”_

“ _You said you'd done that before,” Steve pointed out, with a slight hint of accusation. So, yeah, last night had not exactly gone to plan, but Tony was nothing if not completely on board with the old adage of practice makes perfect._

“ _X-Files marathon? Twice, but I admit I skipped the goat one. Look, I said I'd done stuff,” Tony corrected at Steve's look. “Technically, not exactly that. I did some research though, which reminds me to delete Professor Jacob's browser history or never look her in the face again, and, according to the Internet, the key is more lube. Always. More lube. Really, whatever it is, more lube.”_

“ _Tony,” Steve whined, mouth twisting into a frown as he sat down at their small table and started picking up and putting down the scattering of parts and tools Tony had spread out there. “We don't have to, you know. It's okay. I—I liked the thing you did the other night. With your, you know.”_

“ _Everyone likes blow jobs, Steve. And we'll definitely be doing that again, at least once you can say the words. Big believer in, Ask and Ye Shall Receive,” Tony admonished, wagging his finger at Steve as he walked the few steps between them in the cramped apartment. “You're going to like this, too. Love this. I promise. Quit worrying. It's going to be great.”_

“ _Don't wanna hurt you,” Steve protested._

“ _Well, you aren't. I'm telling you, it's going to be great. Fantastic. Lube. Seriously. I got, like, four tubes. We're good. Rookie mistake with the one, little packet thing. Really, Steve, we'll laugh about this one day,” Tony argued, coming to stand in front of Steve and resting a hand on each of Steve's shoulders._

“ _If this is—I mean, if this is what you want,” Steve mumbled, going a truly terrible shade of beet red, though he was leaning into Tony's space, looking up at him with deer-in-headlights eyes that probably meant he had no idea what answer he actually wanted from Tony._

“ _If? If? Seriously? I want---DO YOU HEAR ME, FRED, YOU REPRESSED, DOROTHY-LOVING LITTLE TWINK--” Tony shouted over his shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen wall. “I want your gorgeous cock—well lubed, as we have discussed, important footnote—I want you, want to feel you, want it to be you. You for me, and me for you. I thought it was the sex that was the big show, this huge moment I'd have, but it isn't. It's sex with you. With someone who loves me, who I'm crazy about, who I want to spend the rest of my life figuring things out with. You're worth the wait, Steve Rogers.”_

“ _You're worth everything, Tony Stark,” Steve husked out, hands going to Tony's waist as he pulled Tony close enough to bury his head into Tony's stomach and let out a shuddering breath that warmed the skin of Tony's stomach. For a moment, a pang of something like dread stretched its up Tony's spine to wrap itself deep inside his chest, coiling and burrowing a trail of wrongness there, though he couldn't say why. It was gone before he could really register it, fleeing from Steve's hands where they drew up Tony's shirt Steve's mouth, hot and wet just above Tony's waist, and Steve's eyes, dark and wide with lust and so filled with love that Tony forgot everything else._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get quite as far with this chapter as I'd hoped, but it was already over 10K, so I figured it was time to post something. Thanks for sticking with it and reading along!

By the time he reached the front of Steve's building, Tony's breath was coming in wispy puffs of warm air that hung in front of him just long enough to remind him that it was winter in New York, and he was dressed for the long walk from car to private elevator. The eagerness that had propelled him out of the coffee shop was waning in the frigid evening air, but he'd backstopped this idiocy with his voicemail to Rhodey and couldn't walk away now.

Standing still was out, so he settled for pacing back and forth along the cracked pavement in front of the steps to Steve's building, drawing curious glances from passersby who were too cold to actually care what Tony was doing. Down the street, a truck's horn blared at a woman pulling a cart full of grocery bags behind her across the intersection's crosswalk. The abrupt noise jolted him like a buzzer sounding at a gate, making his heart hammer out its echo in his chest. He was really going to do this...this whatever it was.

His phone vibrated insistently in his pocket. Probably the voice of reason calling, Tony assumed, so he ignored it.

What had he been right about?

He couldn't pinpoint why he hated the sound of Steve's letter the more he turned it over in his head, but each time it clamored across his thoughts, something a lot like dread coiled in his gut. He'd been wrong about so much, but as devastating as it was to look back on, there was nothing that clawed at the back of your vision until it had scraped away everything else quite like uncertainty.

Doubt. That's what it was. Sickening and stomach-churning, doubt creeping in at the edges the way fog bleeds across a road so slowly that its always almost a surprise when you really you suddenly can't see where you're going. Nothing was right about this, not him, not Steve, not any of them.

Maybe this was always going to end with him standing outside Steve's door yet again, hoping for answers he probably wasn't going to like. But, he was going to get them, and whatever they were, so be it. At least, he'd know.

His legs felt heavy, leaden, as he took the steps and pulled open the door to the building's small vestibule. The coconut bong was gone from the box below the mailboxes, replaced by a few pieces of junk mail, a can of Red Bull and a wadded up bag from Taco Bell where people had apparently decided an empty box was close enough to a trash can to make do. He took the steps in a rush for the first two flights, then slowed as he got closer to Steve's apartment, a hundred thoughts marching across his mind, most of which consisted of some version of sorry for blatantly invading your privacy, but were you planning to put my thesis on eBay or what?

That was unfair, even for him, he knew. This whole situation had Tony twisted in on himself until he was some version he barely recognized. His defenses were a hair's breath from going nuclear, and he wished it wasn't that way, but couldn't seem to draw down, not when it was Steve.

Steve, and his box of memories, and his terrible life that he managed to be happy with, and didn't that fucking hurt like a sonofabitch? If Steve had wanted the money more than Tony, why so God-damned fine with how everything worked out? Why the gushing...pride—and God, did that not make sense, but there it was—pride over the Tower? None of it made sense. From the first moment he encountered Steve on the street, the whole thing had been wildly off-script, and no one, not Nat or Barnes or even Thor, seemed to be playing their parts.

When Tony reached Steve's door, he stopped and raised his hand to knock, trying to gather his scattered thoughts and focus. His phone buzzed once more in his pocket, but the lifeline option had long since passed. Tony sucked in a breath, and forced a swallow down his suddenly parched throat, feeling his insides tighten, then seem to liquefy as he waited to face Steve and whatever it was Tony had been right about. He rapped his knuckles on the door a few times, and dropped his hand, eyes blinking down to the plain, blue doormat one more time.

He really hated that thing.

Somewhat anti-climatically, the tall, well-built blonde who opened the door was not the one he was looking for at the moment.

“Who is it, Karen?” an unfamiliar voice called out, drawing Tony's attention to a man in a suit and dark, round, wire-rimmed glasses over the woman's shoulder. One of those long, thin canes that blind people use to tap out the space in front of them leaned against the wall next to the strange man.

“Mr. Stark?” the woman said with a confused frown. “What are you--”

“Tony?” Steve broke in abruptly, stepping into Tony's view from the kitchen area. “Did—did you need something?”

“Huh?” Tony groped for words, gaze wandering around the tableau in front of him. “I—no. No. Wait, yes. I--”

“Mr. Stark?” Suit-Guy asked. “Mr. Stark, I'm Matt Murdock,” the man introduced himself. “And this is Karen Page, my assistant. And notary, when the need arises. Hopefully, doing a bit better job than your last notary.”

“I don't know, Matt. This stamping thing is tricky,” Karen protested with an exaggerated frown as she held up the round notary stamp and a slim, flat inkpad. “And all those rules about names and forms of identification...” she trailed off, giving a shake of her head.

“We've really tried to get her to be Speak No Evil, but it didn't take,” Murdock offered placidly.

“Uh, yeah,” Tony stammered, completely at a loss for a moment, though the woman's face had softened with the ghost of a laugh. “My, ah, my—it was my butler. Last time. Jarvis. He—he did the notarization. Actually, now that you mention it, it's—it's really the only time he messed anything like this up. That we know of, I suppose. I don't—I don't know why—I mean, it was—a lot was happening--”

“Its just a simple mistake, Tony. Happens,” Steve interjected with a slight shrug. “Was--was there something you needed?” Steve asked rather pointedly.

Yes, Tony thought, I need you to tell me what I was right about, and why you have a circuit I made ten years ago that doesn't even work. “I wanted to talk to you,” Tony tried instead.

“Oh,” Steve replied. “Ah—Well. It—it really isn't a good time, Tony. I guess, maybe we could step out into the hall for a minute or...”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you wait until after all of this is taken care of before speaking to my client,” Murdock cut in, though there was an undercurrent question in his voice despite the firm ton. “Everything seems to be in order, but I'd like to go over a few things with Steve before he signs. I can have the papers dropped off at your office tomorrow. I'd just ask that your lawyers forward me fully executed copies after you sign.”

It surprised him, though Tony supposed it shouldn't, not at this point, really, but it did. The pain, the way it sliced through his skin, down into the bone and burrowing into the marrow, like it could find where he lived if it went deep enough. They were back here again, using papers with magic words to dissolve something that maybe had never been, not really, not in the way he'd thought, except now there was a box full of things that made that a convenient lie.

Maybe it hurt more this time because the anger that had scorched through everything in its path the first time was hard to muster now, with Steve standing here in this tiny space he'd carved out, with a hand that couldn't draw, working some dead-ended job pushing another cart of cleaning supplies down some other half-assed, hallowed hall full of people who didn't see him.

“Steve,” Tony tried. “Can we—can we just, maybe, I don't know, go somewhere—the hall, back to the coffee shop or—fuck, I don't care—just—just to talk?” Tony stuttered, his jaw grinding together with the effort not to beg. He could feel his hands curling into fists against his sides, fingers rubbing back and forth against each other in an effort to keep his agitation in check before he did something truly stupid, like throw himself at Steve and—and what?

Ask Steve what the fuck he'd been right about and why Steve had thought so much about the Tower and why he sounded so proud, so damn _proud_ , about the things SI—the things Tony--made. But mostly, he'd probably ask Steve not to sign, and that, ladies and gentlemen, meant it was past time to abandon ship because that fine line between blindingly stupid and actually just torturing himself had narrowed to almost nil.

“I don't think that's a good idea right now, Tony,” Steve responded quietly, glancing at the lawyer, his voice low and strained, raspy, like Steve sometimes got when he couldn't quite get his air, which hurt to know, to be able to recognize so easily, to slip into old where-did-we-put-the-inhaler-this-time-so-we-will-definitely-probably-remember-it habits like a second skin. Because it would be easy. So very, very easy. Those feelings, they had buried themselves so brutally well that Tony had assumed they were gone, but that, clearly, had never been the case. They were the jack-in-the-box, and he was on the last note, his heart hammering in his chest because he knew, he knew, dammit, that one more turn and that was all it would take.

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, Mr. Stark,” Murdock said, almost gently. “I need to talk to my client. You understand.”

Client. Right. Because only Steve Rogers could find himself a blind lawyer. Tony had to bite back the impulse to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He was afraid if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop.

“Of course,” Tony gutted out, though the words sounded garbled to his own ears. His phone shook in his pocket again, and this time, it was a lifeline. “I, ah. I have to take this, anyway,” Tony mumbled, stepping backwards towards the stair rail and digging into his coat for the phone. He caught the woman's knowing blue eyes as she pushed the door closed, but was already rushing down the stairs, escaping as much as anything, before he registered the sympathy.

Tony punched the answer button and held the phone to his ear with a wince. “...pick up, Tony. Come on, pick up, pick up,” Rhodey chanted into the line.

“You aren't going to believe this,” Tony started, breathing heavily as he took the stairs. “But, I just got cockblocked by Justice is Blind.”

“Man, tell me you are not where I think you are,” Rhodey's ground out in a pinched voice. Tony could practically see the other man massaging the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Tony, what are you doing? We talked about this. What happened to, “Don't worry, Rhodey-bear, I'm not doing anything without my signed permission slip, Scout's Honor,” huh?”

“I wasn't a Boy Scout. Look, I just—I don't know what I was thinking, Rhodey, but I came by earlier this afternoon—just to talk, I swear to God-- and the Big Gulp next door let me in---not my fault--and there's a box full of stuff with me all over it—letters and my thesis and pictures and---” _my ring_ , Tony thought silently.

“---And, ah, we had coffee, and now there's a lawyer going over divorce papers with him and I hate it, I hate it so fucking much, feel free to stop me anytime here, but God, Rhodey, I don't know what I'm doing anymore,” Tony finished in a frustrated rush as he stalked down the sidewalk towards where he'd parked the car in that surreal, pre-box time when things had made some kind of sense.

“Yeah, something's definitely off, I'll grant you that much,” Rhodey acknowledged with an air of resignation, bringing Tony to a halt next to a streetlamp covered in fliers advertising everything from Pho-to-Go to erotic massage, possibly from the same place.

“Wait, what?” Tony stumbled over his words, looking up and down the street like the crosswalk sign would suddenly turn Rosetta Stone. “What are you—what do you mean?”

“I got no idea, Tone-Loc,” Rhodey replied with a sigh that carried through the phone. “Well, okay, I got ideas. Bunches of them. But, I don't know, man. All I'm saying is, something's off here. Barnes, sure, he's gonna have his guy's back. I get that. But, Nat? Thor? And then there's Steve, all moon-eyes over you the whole time you're there?”

“Excuse me?” Tony broke in.

“Dude, you got an eggroll _and_ a won-ton. I couldn't even get one of those packets of crappy soy sauce, and Barnes had like twenty of them,” Rhodey protested. “I know because he counted them out into little piles of five, the bastard. Not to mention, okay, sure, a nineteen year old with zero experience with money blowing his wad, I can buy. But...it's off, somehow. The whole thing. You see it, too, but you don't want to admit it because that's going to open a can of worms. Not just any worms. I'm talking Hebert-level sandworms. And please, “Oh, the Stark tech is so shiny and pretty and awesome! Did you build that with your giant, brilliant mind, Tony?” Good Lord. Thought Barnes was going to whittle his chopsticks into shivs and take you out. Which, begs the question, what the hell, am I right?”

“That...that wasn't...” Tony began, turning around in a circle on the sidewalk because he didn't know what the hell was happening, so three circles and just sitting the fuck down and breathing into a paper bag sounded like a great plan. “He's got a box of stuff. Like, stuff about me. Us,” Tony told Rhodey, a frown forming as he glanced back down the street, looking for someone who was definitely otherwise occupied, doing exactly what Tony had asked of him.

“And you've got your Drawer of Self-Flagellation, so you're even,” Rhodey pointed out, though, bless him, he managed to get that out without the attendant tone of judgment it deserved. “Just...look, I'll be up there tomorrow. I got—I got something I'm checking on. Don't—no, no--don't ask. Not yet. You'll take it and run with it, I know you. A day, Tones. Give me a day, okay? Then do all the stupid you want. I'll even help. ”

“I—fine. I can—yeah. A day. Okay. I can do that,” Tony said after a beat.

He drew up next to where his car was parked and leaned back against it while he stared up at Steve's building. His fingers were numb around the phone from the cold, but he didn't want to end the call, because then he would have no reason for not leaving that wasn't completely pathetic and probably, as the lawyer upstairs would no doubt tell him, vaguely stalkerish.

“Okay. Okay, so, you do that. Just...hang in there. Tomorrow, you hear? Whatever...well, whatever this is, we'll deal with it together, Tony,” Rhodey promised.

'Yeah,” Tony breathed out after a minute, his face scrunching into a wince. He clicked the phone off and held his hand over his mouth, breathing warm air over the icy skin and blinking against the sting of the wind in his eyes. The wind. Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, he thought harshly.

He pulled the car door open and shrugged into his seat, hunching down and glancing up out of the frosted windshield. He could go back up. No, he couldn't, he'd promised Rhodey, and there was a lawyer between him and Steve now, anyway. And if he did, he knew full well that Rhodey was more right than he wanted to admit. Walking away now was threading the eye of the needle as it was. If he went back up there, he wasn't going to just be able to leave.

By the time he navigated New York City traffic back to the Tower from Brooklyn, the skyline was lit up like Christmas, his name clearly visible in the middle of it all. He thought again of Steve's comments about the Tower, and couldn't help trying to look at his bouncing bundle of capitalistic excess through that filter. It was on the ostentatious side of gaudy, sure, but there was beauty there, too, at least to him. And to Steve, apparently. He decided to just ignore the too-obvious parallels in that particular sentiment.

Most of the rest of the night was spent getting a fuck-ton of nothing done in the workshop. He might have spent time calculating the metric equivalent of a fuck-ton at some point, but the work kept his mind occupied, burning through enough ideas and coffee to keep from doing something stupid.

Again.

Pepper slipped in first thing in the morning and brought donuts for breakfast, the good ones from Orwasher's that he loved, filled to order with homemade jellies inside.

“So,” she started in her familiar clipped, serious tone that usually meant she was going to tell him about dividends and quarterly earnings and probably use letters like SEC, and not mean the fun kind that involved guys in tight pants slapping each other on the ass.

“You're trying to lull me into a sugar coma so I'll listen,” Tony accused lightly, licking a splotch of raspberry jelly off his thumb. “I did the homework. I know where we are. They want to do a two-for-one stock split when the shares hit one-fifty. I'm all for it. Help the little guy buy in, I get it. They want to spin off the clean energy sub first, though, which they think will up the stock price even more, and no, we are not doing that. I've told them over and over, and I don't care how many actuaries they get to tell me the hit the we're going to take on the write-down, but come on. That's playing with the numbers, and the Board knows it, but they got their options, so.”

Pepper blinked at him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Well, my work here is done,” she said, tucking her tablet back into her leather satchel.

“What? I can multitask,” Tony said, tipping part of a donut in her direction.

“That, I definitely know,” Pepper agreed amiably. “You sent the jet for James? I've got a notification from the airport that his flight plan says he'll land at one. I'll have Happy pick him up.”

“Thanks,” Tony replied with a quick nod.

“Speaking of Steve,” Pepper said primly, folding her hands in front of her. “Which we weren't, exactly, because we were avoiding talking about him, but that's clearly a lost cause.”

“Clearly,” Tony acknowledged with a rueful twist of his mouth.

“He's waiting in your office,” she told him, her tone gentle, head cocked to one side as she regarded him with a shrewd, determined look. “He has the divorce papers. I offered to take the them myself, of course, but he wanted to give them to you personally. I don't know if I respect him for that or hate him a little bit. Maybe both. See? I can multitask, too,” she finished with a soft, apologetic smile.

“Oh,” Tony stammered, trying to find purchase while someone pummeled him in the gut. This was what he'd wanted. Exactly what he'd wanted, in fact. Tony had clearly won at life. Steve signed the paperwork with little fuss, all things considered. It was over and done with. He'd never have to see Steve again after today.

Yes. Everything was perfect.

He was going to throw up.

“Tony,” Pepper entreated softly. “It's okay, you know? To love him. I'm not saying you do. At all,” she clarified quickly. “But. If you do. It's okay. We all do stupid things when we're young. I mean, you've seen the pictures of me with a perm, right?” she teased with a wobbly smile. “Five million dollars? That's security for a lifetime when you're nineteen. I'm not saying it was right, not at all, it was terrible, and you deserve so much more, let me be the first to say, but...if he's who makes you happy...then, that's okay, Tony. You don't have to justify anything to anyone. Not me. Not James. We just want you to be happy. You know that, right?”

“I—I do. I know that,” Tony replied roughly. “Thank you. Thank—Thank you. Really. I mean it. I--God, Pepper,” Tony broke off, scraping a hand over his face. “I don't know what I'm going to do.”

“That's okay, too,” she replied, coming over to stand next to him and rest a hand on his shoulder. “We'll help you figure it out.”

“My office, huh?” Tony repeated dully.

“Yes,” Pepper replied.

“Thanks, Pep,” Tony said, reaching up to squeeze her hand before he grabbed one of the workcloths and wiped his hands on it, pushing himself away from the workstation with as much ambivalence as he could muster. “How do I look?” he asked, gesturing up and down. “Like five million bucks?”

“Tony,” Pepper said lowly. “Are you sure you don't want me to get the papers? I really can insist. I'm good at insisting.”

“That, I know, Miss Potts,” Tony responded with a slight tip of his head. He gave her hand one more reassuring tug and let go, smoothing his hand over his t-shirt and jeans. “Time to get divorced. Again.”

“Good luck, Tony,” she called after him as he walked towards the workshop door. “I'm coming in there with an emergency production issue in thirty minutes if you're not out!”

“Its like being a teenager in the bathroom again,” Tony replied over his shoulder with a smirk. “Those were Polular Mechanics magazines, Mom, I promise!”

The elevator ride to his office floor was too short, though that was probably good. One could only work up so much anxiety between three floors unless you were in The Raid. He could see Steve's tall shadow behind the frosted glass doors as he approached, standing and sort of shifting around in the twisting, awkward way Steve did when he wasn't sure what to do with a body that sometimes still wanted to think it was three sizes too big.

Tony pushed open the door and stepped inside, making Steve turn in startle and nearly bump his shin into the glass coffee table next to where he was standing, making the Newton's cradle metal ball toy sitting atop it begin clicking back and forth in a kinetic frenzy .

“Hey,” Steve said quickly, blue eyes following Tony as he walked around his large desk.

“Hey,” Tony replied, striving for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. He cleared his throat and sat down behind the desk, flatting one palm on top and holding out the other hand in the direction of one of the chairs directly opposite for Steve to use.

“I'll, ah, just stand. This—this won't really take long,” Steve said, taking in a deep breath. His eyes dropped to the folder in his hand, which he was patting into the palm of the other hand in a beat that almost matched the truly obnoxious clicking of the metal balls swinging back and forth on the table. “I just didn't want to drop these off with your—assistant. Miss Potts. She offered. But. Well, it just seemed something I should do myself. After everything. So,” he finished awkwardly, looking back and forth like a divorce paper drop box might magically appear and he could make a break for the door.

“Thanks,” Tony said, too quickly. He watched Steve's eyes shift, his stance go rigid, and found himself scrubbing a hand over his face. “Scratch that. I mean, don't. I mean,” Tony stopped, taking a breath. “Thanks, really. For...you know, not being a dick about this.”

“That's a low bar for gratitude you got there, Tony,” Steve observed mildly, but the tension had leaked out of his shoulders a bit. “But, of course, I'm not gonna be...” he cleared his throat and looked down at his heavy, black workboots. “Just figured we'd make this as easy as possible. On both of us. No reason for hard feelings.”

“Right. Right, exactly. That's what--look, Steve,” Tony began. “Sit. Stay awhile. I'm—I'm asking. Let's...We can talk, right? Like actual adults? It was nice. Yesterday, I mean. I—I thought so, anyway,” Tony said, trying not to wince at how pathetic that sounded.

“I thought so, too,” Steve confirmed softly, looking down and away before finding Tony's gaze across the desk again, his, that soft, wobbly smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, the one Tony loved, because it was his—the one Steve seemed to reserve just for Tony--flashing across Steve's face before it dropped off into a carefully schooled expression.

“I can have coffee brought in. Or whatever you want. Hell, they probably have those God-awful chocolate things you like somewhere around here,” Tony offered.

“Don't start on the Yoo-hoo's,” Steve warned, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“Those are not drinks. They're diabetes in a can,” Tony warned with a knowing grin as he leaned back in the leather chair and tapped his hands on the edge of the desk.

“Says the man who forgets to eat anything not hand-picked by Juan Valdez when he gets an idea in his head,” Steve rejoined, returning Tony's grin in earnest before that, too, slipped away. “I—I appreciate that, Tony. Really. I—I can't stay, though. I would. Ah. But. Got a doctor's appointment. Kind of a last minute thing, actually. That—that hand doc? His office called and said there was an opening, so they worked me in, so,” Steve replied with a small shrug, though Tony caught the way Steve's fingers thrummed across the folder in reflex.

“Good,” Tony commented as neutrally as he could manage. “That's good. Think he'll be able to help?”

“Worth a shot, I guess, right?” Steve replied with a casual shrug of his shoulders. Tony could practically hear the inner monologue of don't get your hopes up in Steve's tight voice and the way he suddenly seemed fascinated with the contents of Tony's desktop, but what was there to say about it? Sorry you almost got blown up? Could've been worse. Look at Barnes. Though, there was something to be said for losing something entirely versus having just enough of something to still feel close enough to it that it hurt every time you got near to having it.

Well. Thank you, subconscious. Fabulous with the metaphors for life there. Really helpful.

“So, anyway, ah, here,” Steve continued, placing the folder of papers carefully on Tony's desk next to some award Pepper must have dropped off. “Matt looked it over—don't say it, I know—and said everything's good now.”

“Great,” Tony said flatly, eyeing the folder. He fixed a sharp look on Steve, who had shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and was twisting in place, biting his lower lip as he looked over his shoulder at the door. “Well. I'll just hand these off to the lawyers,” Tony finished without taking his eyes off Steve. Actually, he was a hundred percent sure he wouldn't touch that folder with a ten-foot pole.

“Okay. Um, okay. If you need anything else—I mean, the lawyers, if they need anything. You know, just, ah...let me know,” Steve rushed out in a single breath. “I should—I gotta go. So. I guess this is goodbye, then.”

“It doesn't have to be,” Tony heard himself say, the words coming out seemingly of their own volition. His mind was a couple of steps behind his mouth. Admittedly, not the first time for that.

In his head, Tony could hear Rhodey's words, not the ones about something being off, though that was bouncing in his head, too, but about how Steve had looked at him. Moon eyes, Rhodey said. And Pepper, who just wanted him to be happy, and could see past all of this to what it was that gave him that chance.

“Maybe. Maybe it doesn't have to be,” Tony continued softly. “Goodbye, I mean.”

“Tony,” Steve breathed out, throat working around the word, like it hurt to get out.

“You said yourself, there were good times,” Tony reminded him. “Look, maybe I'm reading this wrong, but I don't think I am. This thing—us--” Tony stopped with a frustrated grimace flashing across his face. “We could try. Again. I mean, it doesn't have to be this grand, epic thing, right? We were kids. Running off to get married? Everyone who wasn't us knew we were insane, but come on, there's something here. Tell me there isn't. Tell me I'm wrong,” Tony insisted, pushing away from his desk and standing up, striding over to stand in front of Steve.

“Tell me I'm wrong,” Tony repeated, softly this time, almost a whisper, head tilted up towards Steve. “There's always been this—this _thing_ —between us. Why not see what happens? We're both adults. We know what we're getting into. No illusions, no romantic bullshit, just us, seeing what happens—where this goes. Why not, right? At least one thing's always been good between us.”

“Not always,” Steve drawled, mouth flattening in an almost-frown that creased his forehead. His gaze darted towards the door before finding Tony's again. As Tony watched, Steve's eyes dipped down, focusing for a fraction of a second too long on Tony's mouth.

“Well,” Tony started, stepping into Steve's space, his hands curling through Steve's arms and gripping his hips, and God, didn't that feel good? His body agreed far too quickly with that assessment, but a jerk-off to your ex session had probably been a foregone conclusion from the time he saw Steve again. This? This, he hadn't seen coming, but now, it was all he could see. Him. Steve. _Them_. Everywhere he looked, he could see them, together. How it could be. Maybe how it should be.

Steve in his workshop drawing Dum-E or sketching the city. Steve booming with laughter, head thrown back, one hand across his chest, with all the abandon he probably couldn't muster as a child. Steve in a sea of faces watching Tony on the stage, beaming with pride. Steve sitting across the dinner table telling Tony about all the beauty in the world that he thought Tony sometimes missed, though Tony never had. He'd always seen it through Steve's eyes, and that was the most beautiful view of the world there could be.

Steve in his bed, big body wrapped around Tony, hands molding into Tony's flesh, eyes hard and dark with lust, smiling that same soft, wobbly, crinkle-eyed smile, eyes bright with love. Steve next to him. Steve with him. A them. They could have that, again, or something close enough to it that the rest...well, the rest he could chalk up to life experience and childhood fancy. What was left, it could be enough. More than what most people got, most likely.

“I seem to remember we figured things out. Practice makes perfect and all that,” Tony quipped, looking up at Steve through his lashes from half-hooded eyes.

“More like necessity is the mother of invention, from what I remember,” Steve gibed, though his expression didn't match the teasing words. He was watching Tony with a singular intensity, the way he used to, back when Tony could be his world. It was a heady, intoxicating thrill, to be the beneficiary of all that focus, not the way Tony could _solve_ Steve, take him apart and build him up, but the way Steve could _see_ Tony, really see him, see all of him at once and not look away. The spike of pure want that burned through him wasn't a surprise, exactly, though the force of it was. He wanted Steve. Here, now. Everywhere, all the time.

“We figured it out,” Tony reminded him, voice rough and low, nearly shaking with the effort to keep himself steady. He was weaving slightly in place, swaying in that crackling space between them. There shouldn't be space between them. Them. Tony's mind kept repeating that word, sending a pulse of hot, tight sensation spiking through him each time. He swallowed heavily, mouth parting, and watched Steve's eyes widen and face flush, color riding high on his cheeks. Under Tony's hands, he could feel Steve's body stiffen. Fight or flight, Tony thought, somewhat hysterically.

“Insert Tab B into Slot A and all that. Got pretty good at things, if memory serves. We were good, Steve,” he continued, urgency lacing his voice. “Parts, anyway. We both know it, and pretending any differently isn't doing either of us any favors. Why not see where this goes?” Tony entreated, trying to keep the plea out of his voice while he was tugging on Steve's hips, pulling him closer enough so he could feel Steve's warmth radiating in the sliver of space between them.

So close. So close to so much. To everything.

Apologize, Tony begged silently, his hands tightening where they gripped Steve's hips seemingly in response to the plea. Apologize, say you're sorry, say you made a mistake, say you'd do it differently, and I'll give you the world, he thought with a blinding flash of realization. He was one apology away from forgiving Steve anything. Maybe not even that far.

He wanted this. Maybe he didn't want to want it, but he needed it. Pepper was right. He was wallowing in righteous indignation when one of life's few chances at happiness was right here, with nothing more than inches of regret between them.

“Tony,” Steve whispered, voice hoarse and raw, as he stood there, not quite returning Tony's embrace, but not exactly pushing him away, either. Steve let out a long, low breath, and his eyes dipped closed for a fraction of a second before focusing on Tony. “This isn't a good idea.”

“Probably never was, but when has that stopped us?” Tony pressed, shifting his stance just enough to fit himself against the curve of Steve's body. He'd always fit so well there, like he was built to slide his arms around Steve's neck and let his hands wind in the soft down of hairs there on the back of Steve's neck, to rest his head on Steve's shoulder or push his hips into the solid bulk of Steve's thighs. “Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you haven't been thinking about this.”

Steve's gaze was dancing all over Tony's face, like it couldn't quite decide where to land, but kept darting down to Tony's mouth, and Tony was far from stupid. He slipped his tongue out to wet his lips, and watched in fascination as Steve's eyes followed its path, and yeah, okay, he hadn't really intended quite this, but mouths and gift horses, and something he couldn't think of because Steve was right there, mouth slightly parted, eyes darkening to the deep blue of the sky just before a storm.

Dear God, he'd always loved how responsive Steve was to him. He could look at Tony like everything else in the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of them, bright spots in a world gone dark, and the fact that he still could—still, after all these years and everything between them--could make Tony's blood pound in his ears, wipe away every thought in his head that wasn't Steve and leave him only able to try to for short, sharp pants of air just from a look, was enough to send a surge of need snaking its way down Tony's spine and coiling in tight, warm swoops low in his belly.

Later, he wouldn't be able to say for sure which one of them moved first, but he thought it was Steve. Steve, who reached for him so hard and fast it sent what little breath Tony had been able to catch rushing out just before Steve crushed his mouth hard against Tony's, lips slanting across Tony's mouth in a bruising kiss. One of Steve's hands wrapped around Tony's back and pulled him firm against the hard planes of Steve's chest with enough force to send what little air Tony had managed to gasp rushing out into the heat of Steve's mouth in a startled grunt, while Steve's other hand came up to cradle the back of Tony's head, holding him there while Steve followed Tony's gasp with his tongue, licking his way into the wet warmth of Tony's mouth.

Tony felt, more than heard, Steve's moan, shuddering into Tony's chest and sending vibrations straight to his cock. That was enough of an opening for Tony to flick his tongue out over the contour of Steve's lips, just enough to tease, until he felt Steve's mouth open, inviting him in. He pushed his tongue inside, groaning at the surrender, the feel, the taste of him, a dying man under the desert sun being given a drink.

There was a hint of mint from that toothpaste Steve favored making him think of stolen moments in hallways when Tony was between classes and Steve was supposed to be working, and he wondered if Steve could taste the coffee and sugar and was thinking the same, all teeth and spit and noses and absolute wonder that anything had ever been so good. It was like some idealized fantasy of a memory, too good to be quite real, but it was, Steve was here, holding him, kissing him, body moving instinctively against Tony's like it knew all the steps to this dance by heart.

Well, maybe not by heart.

He may not quite know which of them started it, but, damn it all to hell, it was definitely Steve who broke it off, tearing his mouth from Tony's and stepping back so fast there should've been a cartoon puff of smoke in his place.

“I can't—I can't,” Steve panted, one hand coming up in an apparent attempt to wipe his mouth, lips dark pink and glistening from Tony's mouth. It ended up just hovering there, touching his lips for a moment before he let it fall to his side. “I'm sorry. I don't know what I—this was a mistake. I shouldn't have bothered you. I should've just—Ms. Potts. I--I'm sorry. I need to go,” Steve rambled, the whole string of words coming out in one wheezing breath.

“Steve,” Tony began, almost soothingly, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He started to take a step forward, but Steve's whole body froze up, and Tony caught himself mid-stride in an aborted attempt to—to do something. “It's okay. No reason to panic. We're both adults here. Let's face it, this was bound to happen. We don't—ah--we can—you know. This. This could be something. I'm just saying—it could be. If you wanted.”

Steve's eyes, still blown wide, snapped to Tony's in what Tony would have called shock for lack of a better word, though that wasn't quite right, because there was pain in them, pain and regret and something else that slashed through Tony, bright and searing. Fear. There was fear there, too, lurking in the background, which made no sense, not really, but what in this did?

“I gotta go,” Steve said quickly, turning towards the door. Tony reached out and grabbed at his upper arm, managing to hook his fingers into Steve's jacket. “This—this. I gotta go.”

“Steve,” Tony tried again, though he didn't quite know what he was offering or asking. “I'm not—I'm not mad. Not anymore. I was, okay, sure. Can you blame me?”

“I never blamed you,” Steve said quickly, stopping short and giving Tony a frown.

“Well, see, then, yeah,” Tony replied, mentally stumbling for words. “What I'm saying is, it's fine. Well, not fine, but, I mean, I'm not going to let what happened before keep us from having something we both clearly want now.”

“I can't, Tony. I'm sorry,” Steve said again, more firmly this time, with an air of finality that made Tony want to physically recoil. “I shouldn't've done this. That. This was a mistake. Coming here. I knew I shouldn't—but, I wanted to see you and I--I have to go. That appointment. I have to go,” Steve repeated, a note of desperation in his voice, before he shifted his stance, brow drawing together and eyes fluttering shut for a flicker before finding Tony again. “I can't do this. This—this thing with you. What you—what you said. I can't, Tony. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah,” Tony replied dully, dropping his hand from Steve's arm and pivoting away, putting the desk, the space, the everything between them again. “Fine. It's fine. No problem.”

“Tony,” Steve husked out, voice taut and strangely hollow.

“No, no, its good. Great. Whatever,” Tony bit out, then let out a sigh. “You've got to go. Hand doctor, and all that. Good luck with that, by the way,” Tony said, more waspishly than he meant to, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. There was picking at a scab and then there was a good, old-fashioned drawing and quartering of a scab, and he'd never done things in half-measures. “Just go. You're right. This was stupid. I don't know what I was thinking. Thanks for the papers. My people will, you know, call your people. Person. Can he find his phone? Anyway. They'll handle it from here.”

“I—yeah. Okay. Well. Guess—guess this is goodbye, then,” Steve replied stiffly, but there was relief there, too, and, in that moment, Tony hated him a little for that.

“Sure. Why not? All we were ever able to do, isn't it?” Tony snapped, voice brittle, probably because he was pretty sure he was breaking apart and no one was noticing, like in one of those dreams where you went to school naked, but you couldn't figure out what was wrong until you were holding a tray of barely warm mystery meat in the middle of the cafeteria while everyone pointed and laughed. No one sees how bad things are until the exact moment it hurts the worst.

Steve opened his mouth, as if to say something else, but he snapped it shut instead, dipped his head to his chest with a quick, firm nod and turned towards the door. He had one hand on the handle when he stopped. Tony could just see his own reflection in the glass of the door next to where Steve stood, soft and whited out under the too-bright lights. He looked like a ghost. Maybe he was. Maybe he was jus seeing that now.

“If you need anything,” Steve said in taut voice, the kind that probably said 'Yes, Sir,' a lot when he was in the military.

“I won't,” Tony spat back, mainly because it was anger or begging, and he couldn't seem to split that particular baby. He watched Steve's posture go rigid, then seem to wilt for a moment before he regrouped and nodded, pulled open the door and walked out without looking back.

Tony stared at the glass until he couldn't see Steve's back anymore, then walked over to the small bar that jutted out from the far office wall. He uncorked the decanter and poured a few sips into the glass tumbler. It was water, but it felt good to hold the glass in his hand. He liked the familiar weight of it, the way the shape was almost a square, with sturdy, rounded edges that made a satisfying noise when he sat it down on the metal tray.

It was a stupid mental trick, he knew. Nothing here was real. Maybe not even him, he didn't know anymore. He didn't know anything anymore, except that Steve was walking out of his life again, and this time, he couldn't blame greed or desperation.

Which, really, when you got down to it, left the simple notion that maybe Steve wanted nothing to do with him, and a few million bucks was just gravy.

But, Tony had been right about something, and there was a stack of letters to a person who didn't really exist nestled next to the ring Steve's great-something grandfather brought over from Ireland after England took all of their potatoes and left them with starvation or starting over as their choices.

He dragged his gaze to the mirrored wall above the bar, lifted the glass in salute at the sad, little man staring back at him and took a long swallow. It should burn as it went down. Burn and purge, numb and destroy. That would be better. No. _Fuck_. He pressed the cool glass against his forehead and stared at his reflection until he could look at it without wanting to smash his fist into the glass so he could really see himself fall to pieces, none of this metaphorical bullshit.

The moment passed, as it usually did, though he did end up locking himself in the workshop for the rest of the day, refusing entry to anyone, even Pepper, which, yeah, that was petty and childish, he could admit. He didn't want to deal with her telling him to choose happiness when he'd God-damned tried and had it thrown back in his face.

That was unfair, he knew. She wouldn't do that in a million years. She'd be understanding and sympathetic and outraged on his behalf, and he could handle anything except someone being kind right now.

The beeping pattern of the unlock code was all the warning he had before Rhodey slammed the door open and stalked over, grabbing the back of his chair and spinning Tony around so Rhodey could loom over him, which he liked to do sometimes, because, really, the guy flew jets and stuff, so compact was not just an adjective, but a job requirement.

“Sugarbear, do I need a safeword?” Tony asked lightly.

“You locked Pepper out? She’s worried, Tones,” Rhodey groused. “What happens when Pepper worries about you?”

“She calls you,” Tony answered quickly.

“She calls me. Want to know how many calls I have today?” Rhodey demanded.

“Probably not, but I suspect that bit of information is probably going to be shared faster than a Bieber selfie,” Tony replied, tipping his head side to side in a tsking motion.

“A lot of calls, Tony. A lot,” Rhodey grunted, pushing at Tony's shoulders and sending him spinning back around.

“I know. I know! Don't give me that look, Rhode-warrior, come on. Rough morning. Steve brought the papers by. Went fine, but I needed some quiet time to work on...” Tony trailed off, turning to blink at the screen, which he hadn't been paying much attention to over the last few hours, too lost in thought to worry about...oh, right, power couplings.

“Right. Uh-huh,” Rhodey replied, one hand going to rub at his chin. “I can tell how fine it went.”

“We acted like adults. No problem. Lawyers have the paperwork. Assuming it's all good, we're done,” Tony finished with a practiced shrug, turning his gaze back to the computer screen that helpfully went to screensaver mode. Traitor.

“Glad to hear it,” Rhodey announced. “By the way, I don't think Steve took the money.”

“Um...excuse me?” Tony blurted out, a whiplash of bright, white pain lancing across his chest. He swiveled back around to watch Rhodey lean against the desk next to where Tony sat, arms crossing over his chest. “That's not—no. That's not possible.”

“So, I got this buddy at CCF. Army Central Clearing Facility,” Rhodey clarified at Tony's blank look. “See, Army doesn't run financial checks on enlistment like the Air Force does. Basically, the bullet-catchers'll take anyone,” Rhodey said with typical Air Force objectivity, though he held up his hands in front of him in a placating gesture. “No judgment.”

“What are you--” Tony blurted out, hands coming up to rub the palms over the tops of his thighs before he made himself stop. “You're wrong,” Tony said flatly. “That's not possible.” It was the only thing that his mind seemed capable of processing at the moment.

“Army doesn't do financials until someone needs a security clearance or maybe is up for promotion, that kind of thing. Want to be sure G.I. Joe isn't going to be tempted to pay off his credit card debt with a little under the table, see,” Rhodey explained. “Anyway, I got a copy of Rogers' records, and, at some point, they ran one. Basic, nothing too in-depth, but...and this is a couple of years after the whole thing with you ended, but...there's nothing there. Guy's clean. And, okay, say he blows through all that cash like a nineteen year old might... could happen. But, there'd be some trace of it, Tones. Where'd it go? No Ferrari he ended up having to sell off, no big debts, little credit history at all, really. That just doesn't happen, not with that kind of money.”

“That's not—no. I saw the deposit myself, Rhodey,” Tony insisted with a vehemence he hadn't known he could still summon. “I saw it. You think I'm going to just believe Howard? Hell, Jarvis was the one who handled the transaction, and I didn't even believe him. Went down to the damn bank and scared the crap out of some poor girl in the wire transfer department. Even then, I didn't want to believe it. Even then, I'm the stupid idiot who had to go beat down Steve's door and get to see Life of the Rich and Tony-less. He—he admitted it, Rhodey. He admitted it. So. So, yeah.”

“I'm telling you what the records show, Tony,” Rhodey said gently, but there wasn't any room for equivocation in his voice. “You think he's some tax shelter mastermind who hid all that offshore? Come on. It isn't there.”

“No, no, I'm not saying—Fuck. Look, I'm saying he took the money. He said—he said, Rhodey!” Tony stammered, a belated feeling of panic creeping down his spine and out to his extremities, making him feel shaky and tense at the same time, like the two impulses were fighting for control and he couldn't figure out which one to let win. “He said,” Tony repeated, this time, the words scraping out in a rasp.

“You just take all the time you need to sit there and think of a reason why—or who—might've been the reason for that,” Rhodey told him in a quiet, carefully neutral tone, sounding almost regretful about delivering what probably should be good news, but what managed to sound like a horror story.

“It still—no. He never even met my father. He wanted to, but I told him--” Tony stopped. “And sure, that's red-flag-in-front-of-a-bull level of setting myself up, but...they weren't even in the same part of the country, for fuck's sake! Not like Howard was going to take Steve's calls from the God-damned liquor store payphone he used because he couldn't afford an actual phone.”

“How much of this is you really thinking that I'm wrong, and how much of this is you freaking out that I might be right?” Rhodey asked, his tone hesitant and careful, the kind you'd probably use not to spook a guy wearing a suicide vest. “Tony. Think about it. Put aside everything you've thought for the past decade and think about it. Even if you don't want to.”

“He said, Rhodey. He'd already bought all this ridiculous Bed, Bath and Beyond crap. He said,” Tony repeated it like a mantra. It couldn't be true. It couldn't. It was too horrible to contemplate.

Except...there was a box, with a circuit he'd built and the matchbook from the by-the-hour hotel they'd stayed in, and Steve's half of their honeymoon photos, and his ring was still sitting there in the box that somehow belonged to Tony.

Maybe it was too wonderful to contemplate, too. Two sides of the same coin. Head's, Steve didn't take the money and they'd screwed themselves out of ten years. Tails, Steve didn't take the money, and God, they could have this again, this everything. This _them_.

“I know, Tony,” Rhodey was saying. “I get this is hard. And I don't know what to tell you, except that you need to talk to Steve, because something happened, and I don't have the first clue what, but I don't think its what you think it was,” Rhodey replied.

“Oh, good, you're not dead,” Pepper called out from the workshop doorway, her voice tight and subtly annoyed, if by subtle you meant practically dripping with it.

“Sorry, Pep. I needed some time,” Tony said in a voice that didn't even sound like his own. Steve hadn't taken the money. Steve hadn't taken the money. It kept drum-beating through his head like something he knew in the abstract could be real, quarks or dark matter or a decent Adam Sandler movie, but it refused to coalesce. “I should've said something.”

“Damn right,” Pepper admonished, though she just sounded relieved rather than upset. “Mitch wants to talk to you. He's been trying to get a hold of you all afternoon. Rather spectacularly insistently, too.”

Dominoes, Tony thought. One of those intricate, uselessly fascinating creations of them, where one falls over and eventually, they all succumb to that one, tiny bit of force, changing everything. He tossed a glance to Rhodey, who just raised a speculative eyebrow.

“Something wrong with the paperwork?” Tony asked at the mention of the lawyer's name.

“He was ridiculously circumspect when I asked him about your personal legal information, go figure,” Pepper replied.

“Did you tell him my social security number?” Tony asked, shooting her a beleaguered look.

“Tony,” Pepper replied. “Talk to your lawyer.”

“Always fun. Hey, anyone want to ask the kids from grade school to join us? That should go perfectly with my day,” Tony breathed out, massaging his temples with one hand. “Well, send him up, I guess,” Tony instructed wearily, scrubbing his hand roughly over his face. He realized it was shaking and curled it into a fist in his lap, swallowing thickly.

By the time the lawyer got there, Tony's nerves were frayed to a razor's edge around a stomach that was doing its best Gordian knot impression. In a way, he already knew what the lawyer was going to say, though not the specifics of it, of course. Dominoes, though. One was going to knock over what he was right about, and he was more and more certain he didn't want to know.

“Mitch,” Pepper said warmly. Tony could only nod at the slender, white-haired man who stepped into the workshop holding that fucking folder of papers that kept showing up, bad penny-style.

“Ms. Potts,” Mitch said warmly in greeting. “Good to see you, as always. Colonel Rhodes, so nice to have you back in town.”

“Fightin' Fifty-Fifth, represent,” Rhodey said with a forced, tight smile. “Good to see you, too, Major.”

“Oh, no rank for me anymore , unless I need to put those boys at the American Legion in their place,” Mitch insisted with a wan smile. “Mr. Stark, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'd like to discuss something with the dissolution paperwork that I noticed, if you have time,” Mitch said, his gaze turning serious as it settled on Tony.

“We'll just step out while you two talk,” Pepper offered.

“No. Stay. Let's face it, I'm probably going to need you, one way or the other,” Tony said bleakly. “Go ahead, my dear divorce-whisperer, or, in the original Latin, Bearer of Suspected Bad Tidings.”

“Very well,” Mitch replied with a nod. “Everything appears to be in order. The paperwork is a bit dated, given that you and Mr. Rogers were something of unknowing pioneers with the dissolution of your civil union. While it is similar to a divorce, there are some quirks that make what Vermont was attempting to do somewhat unique, and unspooling it a bit of a challenge.”

“No kidding,” Tony interrupted flatly, rolling his eyes a bit.

“It isn't all that surprising, really, that something fell through the cracks,” Mitch continued without pause. “Rather a new area of law, and one that, thankfully, is quickly becoming obsolete.”

“Okay, so...everything's fine?” Rhodey pressed. “Not that we don't love your eight-hundred dollar an hour company, but...”

“No, no, of course. The paperwork itself is fine. I'll need your signature on the documents, Mr. Stark, and Ms. Potts to notarize them. Then it will just be a matter of refiling with the clerk of courts, and this matter should be at an end,” Mitch explained. “But, there was one thing that seemed...odd., which I wanted to bring to your attention. There was a document included in the paperwork Mr. Rogers returned. I wondered if you were familiar with this?” Mitch asked, sliding a thin, stapled stack of slightly faded papers out and holding them out to Tony, who looked at them blankly for a moment before reaching out to take them.

“What is this?” Tony asked, paging through the document in confusion.

“I take it you haven't seen this before?” Mitch asked.

“No—No, I—no,” Tony stuttered as his eyes scanned the bolded paragraph headings. Anticipatory Forfeiture of Spousal Support. Waiver of Alimony. Waiver of Community Property and/or Equitable Distribution Rights. Waiver and Assignment of Patent, Trademark and Intellectual Property Rights. It went on, but the gist of it was easy enough to gather.

“It purports to be a prenuptial agreement, though only Mr. Rogers appears to have signed it, along with your father, as your “Trustee,” which I understand is not accurate, as your Mother's trust is administered by an institutional Trustee, as representative of Stark Industries, though that carries virtually no legal weight in this particular situation,” Mitch explained. “Both parties to a marriage, or in your case, civil union, must sign a prenup to make it enforceable, which means this is barely worth the paper it's printed on, though I suspect Mr. Rogers is not aware of this. His lawyer, however, should be, which makes its inclusion along with the other divorce papers a bit, well, odd, as I said. I can only speculate, of course, but...well...I believe this was included deliberately, so that you might be made aware of its existence, in case you did not already know.”

“I didn't know,” Tony said numbly, staring down at the papers in his hand. The papers where Steve, Steve with his shitty apartment and his stupid, beautiful vases and his box of nothing— _everything—_ nothing, where Steve signed away anything of value he might have gotten from his marriage to Tony.

“You mentioned there was a payment to Mr. Rogers upon the dissolution of your marriage?” Mitch asked.

“Hmmm,” Tony murmured, still scanning the pages. Dammit, Steve. Dammit all to hell. What were you thinking? Tony had thought about a prenup, though it had run in and out of his head somewhere around ring-coffee-yes-god-please-right-there. “Yeah. Maybe. Fuck, I don't know. Why?”

“Well, if there was, it isn't mentioned in here. Some prenups will include lump sum payments in lieu of certain legal rights or other claims to assets, but, in fact, there isn't any consideration mentioned in here, which is not only legally insufficient, but the circumstances of this make the whole thing highly suspect,” the lawyer pointed out.

“You don't say,” Tony said dully. “When—when was this signed?” Tony asked, flipping the pages over to the signature block, where Steve's careful strokes signed his name, and dated it just a week or so before Steve proposed with coffee and the only family heirloom he had. The week or so before when Howard had been in Boston for that conference.

Well, fuck my life, Tony thought bitterly, a bright, stinging burn building up behind his eyelids.

“That fucking bastard,” Tony ground out, slapping the papers into the palm of his hand. “I swear to God, if Howard did this, I'm going to dig him up, and salt and burn the corpse.”

“I didn't hear that,” Mitch said quickly.

“I'll help,” Rhodey offered.

“There's Kosher salt and some leftover birthday candles from Frank's party in the break room,” Pepper added.

“Or—or those things,” Mitch stammered, looking wildly uncomfortable.

“You gotta go talk to him,” Rhodey said.

“You think???” Tony burst out in something that was almost an incredulous laugh but too close to something painful to quite pull it off. Tony dropped his head into his hands, using the papers as a shield for a moment as he ground his forehead against them, back and forth, back and forth, like maybe he could erase the words, though, that wasn't right, either. He was caught in some infinite loop of not wanting to believe the thing that was knocking its way through all his walls and desperately wanting it to please, God, be true.

“Don't get pissy with me because your old man was an ass,” Rhodey said with a shrug. “Anything else in there?” he asked Mitch with a nod at the folder.

“No, no, everything else is in order. I can have one of our associates take it down to the clerk's office and file it this afternoon, in fact, if that's what you want me to do,” Mitch suggested, voice rising in question. “As I said before, I don't think there was ever any question that the original dissolution was valid, but this would certainly put an end to any issue. Is that what you want me to do, Mr. Stark?”

Looks have weight, Tony thought to himself, as he felt three sharp, heavy gazes fall on him.

“Shred those,” Tony ordered.


	7. Chapter 7

“I'm caught in a loop in the Matrix,” Tony observed as Happy slid the car next to the curb in front of Steve's building. Again.

Peering up through the tinted window up at the brick facade, he felt a loose, fluttering sensation ripple through his stomach, making him queasy. He was caught in a strange sort of stasis of disbeliefe, where he wanted desperately for this to be true and couldn't bear it to be true at the same time. He ran a shaky hand back and forth across his forehead, mouth twisting into a grimace.

“I can't believe this is happening. Is this happening? I don't even know what to think anymore. A few days ago, my life, everything was fine—don't give me that look, it was. It was. It almost mostly was. Now this--this—whatever this is with Steve?” Tony stammered. “Steve. God, Rhodey, what the hell am I going to do? If I was wrong, if this really was Howard--”

“Don't get ahead of yourself, Tones,” Rhodey cautioned with a slight frown from where he sat on the seat next to Tony.

“I'm literally still sitting in my car staring up at his building like I sparkle in the daytime,” Tony objected, tossing a hand up. “How is that getting ahead of myself?”

“Bullshit. You've probably already got a list of his allergies to give your chef, planned some elaborate vacation that involves the Top Ten Things I Definitely For Sure Haven't Been Thinking About Doing With Steve All These Years, and figured out which side of the bed would be his,” Rhodey replied, without a hint of accusation, which was a feat in and of itself, Tony could freely admit.

“That's not true,” Tony protested weakly. “He's always had the side nearest to the door--”

“Because, you're a precious princess who must be protected, go on,” Rhodey cut in, pulling a face and nodding sagely.

“--so, technically, I don't need to figure that out,” Tony finished.

“My point. Want me to go up with you?” Rhodey asked, his tone gentling.

“No. Well, yes. Actually, can I wait here, and you go?” Tony said plaintively with a low huff of caustic laughter aimed at himself. God, this was pathetic, sitting out here in the cold while Schrodinger's Ex was up there with all the answers. “I'm...I'm not sure what I am. I don't even know what answers I want to hear. Anything. None. Jesus fucking Christ, Rhodey,” Tony blanked, rubbing both hands over his face vigorously enough to try to scrub the vestiges of immobility off. “This can't be happening. I'm going to wake up. Any minute now. I'm going to wake up and be back at--” _school_ , he mentally finished, breaking off before he said more than needed to be said.

There was no going back. He knew that much. There might be a very small path forward, though, and he was clinging to that more than he wanted to admit.

“I'm coming up,” Rhodey announced, starting to slide across the seat to reach for the door handle.

“No. No, I got this,” Tony replied with a firmness that was probably belied by how much his hands were shaking. He kept having to ball them into fists or rub them up and down over his thighs to cover the movement and the admission that Rhodey would see in it. He didn't think Rhodey missed it, though. Really should've picked a best friend who lacked observational skills. Would've solved so much, he thought with a grim sigh.

“I do!” Tony reiterated at Rhodey's pointed look. “Alright. I'm going.”

“Any minute now?” Rhodey agreed pointedly after a long moment of nothing happening.

“Any minute now,” Tony snorted. “Christ, James, what if we've lost ten years? Ten years,” he said, shaking his head like he could dislodge the number. Ten years. It kept ringing through his head, counting off like the world's most depressing metronome.

“What if you don't have to lose any more?” Rhodey asked rhetorically. “Come on, Tones. You gotta know, one way or the other. Then, whatever you want to do, man, you know I'm on your six.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Tony repeated with a deep sigh. “Thanks, Rhodey. For, you know. All of it. I should have—years ago, I should have—I could've done what you did—Army records are a piece of cake, for Christ's sake, but I didn't—I never did. I never fucking did. Damn it, I never wanted to think about him, much less...much less let myself believe, even for a moment that maybe, just maybe...God, maybe someone like Steve might actually have loved me. I couldn't deal with being wrong—with losing that again. That was the path to recalling exactly where I keep that last bottle, my friend, trust me, and it took your mom and her twelve-step course on TV/VCR repair to help me put it away the first time around.”

“I know, man. You know how hard I had to work to convince you I did more than tolerate you? Third time we hung out, you offered to get your Dad to pull strings with my commission. I mean, Tony, you-- you've always been so ready to believe that someone didn't love you. I could write a book on why that is. Admittedly, it would go something like, Chapter One: Howard. But, look, you know who else knew that about you? One guess,” Rhodey offered grimly.

“He knew how I'd react,” Tony said in a dim, faint whisper. “That I wouldn't look far enough.”

“I hear what you're doing there. Stop it. Look, Tony, you can't go blaming yourself for this. It'll drive you crazy with what could've been and if only, and hindsight generally fucking you over. That's getting you absolutely nowhere. I don't know what happened, but this whole mess stinks of your dear, departed asshole of a father, and yeah, maybe you and Steve, maybe you two let your own shit get in the way. You never trusted it, what you had with Steve. You wanna know who else knew that about you? Oh, look, we're back to him again!” Rhodey nearly shouted, slashing one hand up in the air in frustration.

“He said he took the money. He said it. To my face, Rhodey. I mean, he looked guilty as hell about it, but Steve's poker face was always a flashing neon sign, so what the hell?” Tony burst out, palms rubbing up and down his thighs again. “I mean, say, it isn't true. Say, he didn't really take it. Why would he say that, if he didn't want to be rid of me? That's what—that's what keeps running through my head, and I got to tell you, Rhodes, I'm not finding too many answers there that I like,” Tony admitted dully, rubbing the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I don't know if I can hear that again. Not from him.”

“If he says that, then he's an idiot who doesn't deserve you,” Rhodey said with characteristic loyalty that made Tony flash him a weak smile in return.

“You're my best friend. You have to say that. Is in the handbook,” Tony gruffly reminded him, nudging at Rhodey's shoulder with his elbow.

“Look, I chased this guy down with you once. This what you want? I'll do it as many times as it takes. You know that. Though, if he gives you any grief, I'm'a gonna beat him with his own mop, you hear? Now, think of the make-up sex—don't tell me about it, I'm saying _think_ of it. Dude, really, not everything has to be verbalized—and go talk to your maybe-husband,” Rhodey said, punctuating his words with a sharp nod.

Tony sucked in a long, quivering breath and resolutely pushed open the car door, stepping out onto the now-familiar curb. He walked up the steps and paused at the threshold to give Rhodey a quick, nervous look over his shoulder. Rhodey flashed him a thumbs-up and made a shooing motion at him with one hand before pushing the button to raise the car window, obscuring his face, and leaving Tony feeling momentarily derailed by the sudden aloneness.

They'd been hovering, Rhodey and Pepper, Tony thought, with a warm burst of gratefulness. James Rhodes was the kind of friend who sees you at the bottom of the pit and not only jumps in with you, but the rare kind who will stay there with you until you can get yourself out. And Pep, bless her, she wanted Tony to be happy so badly she'd close her mouth and let him settle if she thought it would get the job done. Two kinds of friends, Tony realized as he stepped inside the vestibule of Steve's building. One to help you bury the body, one to make sure you're handling everything okay, he thought wryly, picturing Pepper gamely holding a shovel and looking at her watch while one perfect heel tapped a pattern into grave dirt.

Tony sighed grimly and started up the steps. When had the steps to Steve's apartment gotten so ridiculously steep? Fuck me, Tony huffed to himself as he climbed. Might as well be carrying a proton pack up to the corner penthouse of Spook Central, Jesus Christ, Tony panted as he reached the stairwell.

Okay, it was possible that his heart was currently doing the Macarena for other reasons, but still. Point was, Tower had a great elevator, steps sucked, and he hated Brooklyn, Tony thought, leaning over the railing and looking down. It was also possible he was fixating on the steps for other reasons than his FitBit counter.

Steve's door, with the 4B scrawled in black across the front, next to a lighter streak of wood where the grain had long-since peeled away, greeted him as he made the top of the steps. He'd stood here before. Literally, yes, but he'd been on this same threshold, outside Steve's door, terrified and hopeful, maybe for years. Certainly longer than he'd realized or wanted to let himself admit.

He wasn't even sure what he was here to ask, not really. That wasn't true, he thought with a rueful tug of his mouth. Did you take the money was the same as did you ever love me, always had been, and he needed an answer to that. He'd needed that answer for years, whether he wanted to hear it or not.

Rhodey wasn't wrong, though. The fact that the question, this fear, had been there all along had been a giant X marks the spot for anyone who wanted to, say, leave a little breadcrumb trail of isn't-this-what-you-really-expected-all-along, right to the Land of See I Told You So, where the good ship Recrimination and Regret waited to take him back home.

Home, where he would do what he was supposed to do, the dutiful, prodigal son, wanting to please the only person who was pretty much required to love him. He wanted Howard's love so badly, the man had been dead years and Tony was still trying to please him. How long had he let that clean energy idea sit in his computer files, reviled and ignored, but not quite deleted, like the Internet Explorer of his work projects? Years. Years of not wanting to touch it because the person who thought of it didn't exist anymore, or so he'd believed.

Hell, he'd first thought of it curled up on the sofa they'd all hauled across campus from Professor Nguyen's office and managed to get up the stairs in a manner that Tony was still convinced defied the laws of physics, though Barnes' doing his best Ross Gellar, shouting “Pivot!” at every opportunity had been the height of hilarity. They'd all ended up flopped on the floor of that crappy apartment, sloppy with the kind of laughter that kept bubbling up just when you thought you could wipe your eyes one more time and be done with it.

The couch somehow meant he and Steve could have company, like real adults did, even though the same people as always came over, and Nat steadfastly refused to sit on the thing. Bruce swore something had nested in it at one point, but Tony thought they had both loved it because getting it across campus had been their last great adventure of youth, the last time they had all done something crazy for no other reason than it begged to be done. One of those silly things that starts out as a sprig of an idea and grows to epic proportions.

He and Rhodey had plotted out their course across campus. It had taken them the whole day to get the damn thing to their apartment, but they'd spent it stopping at various points on their journey for snacks and posing for photos. His mind flashed to the one of the whole lot of them in the middle of Eastman Court with that stupid sofa that Thor, Steve and Barnes had managed to balance precariously between the Hexagons sculpture, Tony lounging across it with a floor lamp that Nat supplied from God only knew where next to him, everyone else slotted inside the hexagons with various living room odds and ends the always eager to get up to something MIT students had helpfully supplied. He wondered who had that picture. Nat, probably. That had been the last time they were all together like that. Well, until the other night.

God, he hadn't thought of that in...well, a decade, Tony supposed with a wave of longing. He'd let so many of those memories slide into unreality, where they could stay safely tucked away. But he could see it now with a sort of visceral clarity. The rough, scratchy blue fabric that made his skin itch. The stain they debated for hours. The slightly minty, medicinal smell to the thing. Vick's, Steve told him once.

Sitting there, using Steve as his personal body pillow, as he worked on assignments or projects or...damn, that was it. He'd worked on that bit of circuitry, the one in the box, curled up on halfway on Steve's lap while he fiddled with it. He'd abandoned it, eventually going with a more power battery and needing a higher gauge for the wiring so the damn thing didn't catch on fire, but, yeah, it had been the fuse for the power regulation circuit for DUM-E that he'd been fiddling with, trying to figure how how many amps he could pull without modifying the battery yet again.

He'd been sitting there on that ugly monstrosity of a couch, lounging on Steve---because the fabric made Tony's skin itch--working on getting the fuse right and thinking about power generation and thermal fuses with self-resetting features, and the idea had just sort of burst, fully born, into his head. A bright flash of the rare complete thought, gone before he could quite grab all of it, but he'd seen it, the whole thing. And the start of it, the bit of wiring and fuse he'd been toying with, was sitting in a box in Steve's shitty apartment, a souvenir of a eureka moment that only the two of them shared.

That's why you kept it, Tony thought, reaching out to grip the stair railing with white-knuckled fingers. You kept it for ten years because you knew it would matter to me, even if I didn't know about it. Even if I never knew about it. You still kept it. Because I would have cared, and you knew that, and that made it worth saving.

He didn't know what to do with that. It seemed impossible, but he was absolutely certain it was true. Why, sometimes, I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast, his mind quoted back to him.

Please let me not be wrong about this, Tony beseeched a power he didn't believe in, raising his eyes to the ceiling, where a dark, brown water stain looked a bit like the shape of Texas.

 _Please_.

He stepped to the front of Steve's door and stared at the black 4B. He'd noticed it before, of course, but like so much with Steve, he hadn't really looked. Underneath the bold, black lines, he could see tacky glue marks where the ancient apartment numbers had peeled off. He wondered if Steve had been the one to put it there. Probably. It wasn't neat or artistic or anything like that. A little messy, even, and he thought of Steve's hand clutching a marker and trying to keep it steady at the odd angle. But, there was something absurdly defiant about grabbing a sharpie and drawing on the damn door when the stickers peeled off that screamed Steve Rogers and the hill he would die on.

The plain, slightly scuffed blue doormat was still there beneath his feet, mocking him. Tony stood on it long enough to grind his shoes into it before taking a deep breath and knocking on Steve's door. He was still mentally rehearsing what he was going to say when Steve opened the door and all the words that weren't _please_ fled from his head in a great, sickening rush of fear-desire-hope that seemed to slam into him and lodge itself in the place where his heart used to be, beating out a steady rhythm of _pleasepleaseplease_ until Tony half expected it to push out of his chest, cartoon-style, if he didn't let it out.

“Tony?” Steve asked, brow furrowing into a pinched frown as his eyes darted just beyond Tony long enough to realize Tony had come alone.

“We need to talk,” Tony managed to get out. “Please,” he finished, when he couldn't help it, in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone, a gesture, rather than outright begging.

“Is this about the paperwork?” Steve replied, still frowning at Tony, though the look was punctuated by a tight, worried weariness that made Tony's chest constrict with phantom pain.

“Yes, exactly, the paperwork,” Tony said quickly with a spurt of relief. Paperwork. That made sense. Because of the divorce-shaped elephant in the room.

“You should probably have your lawyers talk to Matt, I think, or--” Steve started, one hand going out in front of him like he was reciting a spiel.

“Yeah, no. Not the paperwork,” Tony immediately corrected, then winced and shoved his hands in his pockets, twisting around a bit in place. None of his conversations with Steve ever seemed to go as planned. “I mean, yes, the paperwork—you know what? Can I—can I come in? I'd just as soon not have this conversation with Leaving Las Vegas next door listening in.”

“Ah. Okay. I guess,” Steve replied with all the enthusiasm one musters for things like root canals, a visit to the DMV and pretty much anything that involved the words 'poetry slam.' Still, Steve shifted a step back and held he door open for Tony instead of slamming it in his face, so small victory, Sarah Rogers' lesson in manners is they name.

“Why are you here, Tony?” Steve asked, stiff-backed and holding himself stunted somehow, hunched and impossibly smaller, in a way Steve should never be. He shut the door with far too much care before turning around to face Tony like he was facing the proverbial firing squad. Tony wondered if he looked the same way, resigned and scared and just waiting for the first shot to be fired, so this could finally be done.

I want to know if you traded me for five million dollars, and if you'd do it again.

I want to know why you have a box of crap with my name all over it.

I want to know what I was right about.

“There was...ah, in with the papers, there was an agreement. Pre-nup kind of a thing,” Tony trailed off, hoping Steve would pick up the thread.

“Yeah,” Steve acknowledged, the furrow at the center of his forehead deepening with a frown.

“That...you signed that,” Tony clarified. “Before we got—union-ed or whatever the kids were calling it in those days.”

“Yeah,” Steve replied, impatience or annoyance or something Tony couldn't name making his voice thin.

“Okay, see, I'm going to need more syllables here, Steve,” Tony protested, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He started to pace in the small space between the uglier of the mismatched bookcases and the low coffee table where a textbook lay open to a page proclaiming Americans and the Great War over a grainy black and white photo of dirt-faced young men hunched down against the curve of a trench. Why was it so difficult to ask what he really wanted to ask?

You've got a piece of circuitry that matters only to us sitting in a box next to my ring, and I want both, Tony thought. I want everything. But, if you give me anything, I'm probably going to take it, and that admission was both terrifying and exhilarating.

 _Please._ Please give me something.

“Why did you sign that thing?” Tony demanded. “Did you have _any idea_ what you were giving up?”

“That was always your stuff,” Steve replied with a low shrug, eyes sliding away from Tony and down to the coffee table, like tonight's homework was vastly more interesting than this conversation.

“That was always my stuff?” Tony parroted incredulously, halting his pacing long enough to throw his hands in the air and let them slap against his sides. “That's it? That was my stuff?”

“What am I going to do with...with patents and stuff?” Steve said evenly, face scrunching up like he couldn't quite figure out why Tony was gearing up to shake him until his teeth rattled.

“What were you going to do with patents and stuff?” Tony nearly shouted back.

“You just going to stand there and repeat what I say?” Steve asked, crossing his arms over his chest in such a familiar, Steve-is-frustrated way that Tony almost wanted to crack a smile.

“Maybe it works like Beetlejuice, and if I say it enough, someone will pop out and explain all of this to me,” Tony muttered, sucking in a deep breath.

Steve rolled his eyes slightly at that and gave him a stern look that Tony recognized all too well. If you make that face long enough, Steve, it'll stay that way, Tony thought with an absurd, manic sense of displacement. It was so easy, falling back into this rhythm with Steve. We could always do this dance, Tony thought with a bright pang of nostalgia. Probably because he'd always thought of Steve as the rare soul who enjoyed his tendency to hyper-verbalize everything, like it slotted into the quiet, bottled-up place in Steve's mind, a key turning in a lock that let Steve breath a little easier, live a little better, be a little happier because he could draw on that energy when he needed it.

“Tony, what's the big deal about the pre-nup?” Steve cut in, breaking through Tony's momentary reverie.

“The big deal is that you signed away a shitton of money and got fuck-all to show for it,” Tony retorted, voice rising in frustration.

“He gave you your tuition back, didn't he?” Steve asked with a stubborn sort of quietness, jaw jutting forward like he was pointing out the obvious.

“Wait. What? You signed that to get me my tuition back?” Tony asked, voice going thin, head tilting to one side as he watched Steve's always expressive face, which answered for him. “You signed it to get me my tuition back. _Steve_. God damn it, Steve, you—he was never going to hold back on the tuition! That was just some fucked-up power play because he could make me squirm for a bit. Or, even if he didn't stop being a dick, MIT would've given me whatever scholarship I needed to stay. I mean, they weren't going to kick me out, let's face it.”

“I signed it because it was the right thing to do, Tony. Your Dad was worried about you. You gotta see why,” Steve pointed out with another one of those shrugs that made Tony want to push down on Steve's shoulders until they stayed where God, in his infinite wisdom, put them.

“Oh, he was worried, alright. Worried I'd up and decide that I could have some kind of life that wasn't the one he had in mind. The one where I march right along to his drum. Yeah, you bet he was worried,” Tony ground out. He could hear the tinge of bitterness on the edges of his words. Steve could, too, apparently, his face pulling into a scowl.

“He was worried you were making a terrible decision that was going to impact the rest of your life. He just wanted to look out for you,” Steve offered.

“Well. I promise you, that wasn't it,” Tony replied with a long, agitated sigh, the weight of it all suddenly almost too much. He needed to sit down, but he needed to move, the two impulses leading to jerky, nervous movements that he caught Steve watching with a frown and made himself still. Or tried to.

On his best days, keeping still when he wasn't holding a soldering iron was a challenge. He balled his hands into fists and rubbed them against the tops of his thighs, like maybe he could force some of the energy pinballing through him out if he pushed hard enough. It wasn't working, but it was move or talk, and his mind was grasping at too many threads that didn't make sense to think straight.

“You said—“ Tony started, then stopped when he realized his voice was shaking so much the words were coming out slurry. He drew in another shuddering breath, feeling his chest tighten and expand around the air, sending a cold spike of pressure into his throat.

“You said you took the money. From Howard,” Tony choked out, the words seeming to stick in his throat as his body vibrated with tension, like his skin was stretched too tightly around his bones all of a sudden. “Is that—was that true? Did you take the money? It wasn't in the pre-nup...was it some side agreement with Howard? It's okay. I understand. I mean, we were kids, right? So, its okay. If you took it. I just—I just need to know. For the lawyers,” Tony added, swallowing around the lie.

“Yes, I took the money from Howard,” Steve admitted with a grim sigh, swallowing heavily after the word, like it left a bad taste. “Do we really have to do this again, Tony?”

He hadn't known, until he heard Steve say it, how much he wanted to hear something else. There was a moment, a brief flicker of dread and disbelief that happens between knowing and believing, and he was standing in it. Again. Punch to the gut, they say, but that's not it, not really. That's pain, and pain leaves, dissipates, becomes memory. This...this is loss. Grief, he thought dully, with a flash of recognition, because he'd been here before. He knew this. This is something that hangs on, buries itself down deep, so deep you think it's left you, but its there, living at the bottom of a bottle of Scotch, waiting to claw its way out again. He was nineteen, and Steve was pulling an X-Box controller out of a box, and his heart was shattering.

“No. No, we don't have to do this,” Tony replied flatly, watching Steve finally let his gaze slip away as it darted around the room, then back towards the door. Yeah, point taken, Tony thought bitterly, mouth flattening into a thin line. “I thought—I don't know what I thought. Forget it. My mistake. You're right. This is—we shouldn't be doing this. Lawyers. They can handle it from here,” Tony finished in a tight, clipped tone as he side-stepped toward the door.

He needed to get out of here. He needed to get out of here before he did something he'd regret, like deciding not to care. He'd tried that with Steve already today, and playing Groundhog Day: Rejection Edition was getting old.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, the same way he'd asked that day on the street outside his building, like he cared, like he was concerned, like he wanted to take it away, and God, didn't that fucking sting like a son-of-a-bitch? The utter gall of it, maybe that was the final straw, Tony thought, feeling something close off inside him, something that had been trying to open for too long.

“No,” Tony answered, dull and emotionless, like it had all been scraped out of him. Maybe it had. Maybe it was sitting in a drawer in the Tower or in a box or somewhere that was just _away_. Gone.

“You got a shit deal, you know,” Tony bit out, words dripping with venom. It felt good. Satisfying. Letting the bitterness twist around the words instead of where it wanted to stay, lodge deep down inside, and watching Steve's face go from faux concern to surprise to hurt like flicking through photos on a phone.

“Those things you signed away. They're worth millions. Probably tens of millions,” Tony told him, watching Steve's face closely for any sign of shock or surprise that never so much as registered. “You could've been sitting pretty, living off the Stark dole all these years instead of blowing it all. Is that what you did? Forget it. I don't care,” Tony corrected with a sharp wave of his hand.

He wanted to see it, though, Tony realized. Pain. Regret. Something. He needed at least that. Give me that, he thought, feeling it knot inside his chest and lodge there, the anger, the hurt, the fucking grief that he had to carry with him. Let Steve carry some of it.

Please.

 _Please_.

“Well, guess I'll just have to make do, then,” Steve replied, jaw going hard. “Not that I expect you to understand that.”

“Did he promise to cut you a check when things inevitably went to shit later? Was that it? An exit strategy planning session?” Tony lashed out, hard and brittle and knife-edged. Damn him, Tony thought desperately. Damn them both. “Did you two have it all worked out? Sit around and play Let's Make a Deal with Howard while I was plotting out photo points on a campus map so we'd have a place for company to sit? You asshole. You unbelievable—you know, forget it. We are done. We are so fucking done.”

“What are you—what are you even talking about? What's the big deal about the damn agreement, Tony?” Steve demanded, his teeth grinding together over the words. The muscle was back to pulsing against the solid line of Steve's jaw as he turned his head away from Tony, suddenly finding the tiny kitchen to be a source of fascination, before he dragged his eyes back to Tony. “He was trying to look out for you.”

“Oh, fuck Howard. God, what is it with you and him? Forget it. Just—just forget it,” Tony spat, moving towards the door. “Get out of my way.”

“You were his only kid, Tony. He was worried. Just seemed like the right thing to do. I should've told you, I know, but you didn't want me to talk to him, and he said you'd just be upset about it, on account of you two having a falling out, so I didn't say anything,” Steve replied. “I'm sorry about that. You had the right to know. I guess that's why Matt stuck it in with the other papers, after I showed it to him. But, come on, don't be mad at your Dad over the money. He offered, but I took it. You want to be mad at me for it, fine.”

“Fine???” Tony yelled back. “That's it? Fine? You're not even sorry. God, I don't know what I was expecting.”

“I don't know either, Tony. Look, you got what you came for, right? I signed the papers. No strings, no complaints, nothing. We're done. Like you said. That's what you wanted, isn't it? I mean, I think you've made that pretty damn clear,” Steve shouted back, taking a half-step forward before he spun out of Tony's way in the diminutive apartment and stalked the few steps to the tiny kitchen. He braced his hands on the edge of the counter, holding onto it so hard, Tony could see the blood squeeze out of his fingers, and thought about his own death-grip on the stair railing.

This is what they did to each other. The rest was some fantasy Tony had clearly created in his mind.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...” Steve broke off, voice sounding rough and wrung out, like he'd been running for miles and still had miles to go. “I'm sorry this whole agreement thing got sprung on you like that. I didn't know Matt was going to include it. It wasn't an exit strategy, Tony. It was just your Dad tryin' to look out for you. I'm sorry you can't see that, but that's all it was. You want to be pissed about that or the money or whatever it is, be pissed at me. Howard was just trying to help,” Steve told him, giving him a look, all earnest and solemn, like he actually believed that, which, of everything, might have been the last straw.

“It's okay if I'm a tad upset about you taking a buy-out, but, God-forbid, don't be mad at Howard?” Tony retorted. “Wow. He really did a number on you. I'd feel badly for you, but, well. All things considered, go fuck yourself.”

“I think we just need to let the lawyers handle it from here, Tony,” Steve answered, letting his head dip down to his chest where he leaned against the counter.

“He helped, alright. Helped himself,” Tony heard himself say, the words welling up from whatever pent-up spring of rage he'd been nursing for years. They tasted like copper and Scotch on his tongue, and he hated Steve a little for that. “He got exactly what he wanted out of it, don't worry. I'm one-hundred percent positive he considered it the best money he ever spent,” Tony spat the words out with more caustic venom than he would have said he had left for Howard, but he wasn't even really sure who he was talking about or to. Hating someone and loving them at the same time seemed to be his life's work, but that shit stopped now, he told himself as he reached out and wrapped his hand around the doorknob.

“Well, he didn't really spend it. I got it all paid back eventually,” Steve replied with a tired, blank tone.

It took a few beats. Tony had actually twisted the doorknob in his hand and felt the latch release before it hit him. His mind was still busily castigating himself for even letting himself think, want, hope, whatever, mocking him with a steady drumbeat of _pleasepleaseplease_ in a voice that sounded a lot like a dead man's. So, it took longer than it should have for Steve's words to register, and when they did, Tony couldn't quite get them to process, just kept turning them over and over in his head, pulling them apart and putting them back together in some sort of mental examination, like they would make more sense if he rearranged the letters Tom Riddle-style.

“You got it paid back?” Tony finally husked out, voice quavering as it rose in question. His hand dropped off the doorknob as he slowly turned around to face Steve. “That's not possible.”

“Do you need the records?” Steve asked gruffly, shooting Tony an annoyed—no, scratch that, pissed--look. “Or, do you want to just repeat it some more? I know the concept of paying things off over time is probably a bit new for you, so take all the time you need. Please. I'm really starting to enjoy our little conversations.”

“Records?” Tony repeated numbly, the word sounding foreign and misplaced on his tongue.

“For your lawyers. I've got my ledger. If you need it,” Steve explained, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he stood there, something too tired to be sadness moving across his face. As Tony watched, Steve brought a hand up and ran it over his mouth, eyes clouding before they settled on Tony again, stone-faced and shuttered, something gone that Tony hadn't even known was there until it was missing.

Records.

Ledger.

He could see it, line by line, in the black and white composition notebook tucked away in that damn box, a few pages behind Steve's doodle of Tony slurping down caffeinated currency. Twenty dollars here. Forty there. A couple times, a hundred. All painstakingly tracked over years.

“Steve. How much—how much are we talking about, here?” Tony asked quietly. He was surprised at how calm he sounded, distant, like he was observing this trainwreck about to happen from afar, and somewhere, the back of his mind suggested mild shock in a cultured, British-sounding voice.

“Ah, five thousand? Plus some for interest. Took awhile, but I got everything written down. You want the ledger or what, Tony?” Steve offered again in that same flat, void tone.

“Five thousand dollars. Five thousand. You took—borrowed--five thousand dollars from Howard,” Tony tried out the words. Maybe if he said them out loud, they would make sense. “What happened to the five million?”

“Five million?” Steve frowned, then huffed out a deprecating laugh and gave his head a disbelieving shake. “Dollars? Are you kidding? How the hell would I get five million dollars paid back?” Steve asked, all confused incredulity, but Tony could barely hear it over the sudden whoosh of pounding in his ears.

“There was...Steve, there was five million dollars. A wire transfer. To your bank account I saw it. Went all the way downtown to that stupid bank you insisted on using. I saw the wire confirmation. Poor girl in the wire department, I thought she was going to call the cops. I was—I was not myself. But, it was there, I swear, so what the hell—what the hell is going on?” Tony demanded, gaze zigzagging across the room like he could find answers there if he looked hard enough.

“My bank?” Steve questioned, frown deepening. “Oh, you mean mom's bank. She just put me on her account when she got sick, so I could handle the bills and all. I closed that out a few months after she passed, once everything had cleared,” Steve explained. “Tony, that account has been closed since a few months after she passed. Once everything cleared. I, ah. I switched banks.”

“You switched banks,” Tony repeated, trying out the sounds that those letters made when you put them together like that. “Sorry. I know. I'm just—I'm trying. I'm. Honestly, I don't know what I am. You switched banks.”

“I—ah. Here, I've got...hang on,” Steve said in a quick, stuttering tone as he moved around Tony and bent down to pull the box off the bottom shelf and pop the lid. Tony watched with a sort of detached fascination as Steve rifled through the box and came up with the blue box of checks that Tony had barely noticed. Steve opened it up and pulled out the first stack of checks and pointed them at Tony's chest. Tony saw his hand reach out and take the checks of its own volition, because his mind wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of this.

He'd already gotten there already. Really, as soon as Steve said the account was his mom's. Brilliant, really, but Howard had always been that. He had to give Howard credit. A good burning in effigy, obviously, but credit where credit is due. Back then, before the big automated clearing houses made everything electronic, in the days before the massive bank consolidations, a closed account at a small, regional bank would show the wire in, temporarily forcing the account to reopen, until the nightly processing spit out an error report the next day. Then, the wire gets a big, old return to sender. Howard gets his five million back without a so much as a fuss, and Steve, meanwhile, guiltily admits to taking the money Howard so kindly offered to loan him. Because he felt badly about going behind Tony's back to get it.

Well played, Dad, you giant piece of shit. Ten fucking years, Tony fumed inwardly.

Tony looked down at the book of checks in his hand. The bank name was one he dimly recognized. Closer to campus. He thought they may have even had an ATM in the union. Steve would have noticed that. Thought about it while he worked. Planned it, to surprise Tony probably. The checks were unused, still starting with 101 in the corner. Kirk was sitting in his captain's chair with Spock standing next to him. The address to their crappy Boston apartment was just under their names. Steve had gone with Stark-Rogers, probably thinking he'd somehow put an end to that little debate if he got it in writing.

“You got Star Trek checks,” Tony observed in a thin, cracked voice.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve huffed out, standing up and rubbing at the back of his head with a hand. “Figured you'd like that. Maybe let the name thing slide.” He was holding the composition notebook in his hand, the one with the list of payments and dates, and Tony wasn't going to touch that thing for anything under the sun.

“You borrowed five thousand dollars from Howard. Five thousand. And you...you bought...” Tony broke off, trying to see the scene again, without the emotional meltdown overlay. “You bought a TV. DVD player. X-Box. Microwave. And...towels? Were there towels?”

And a coffee maker.

“Steve...” Tony breathed out, eyes widening in horror as it crashed into him. Oh, there's the train, he thought stupidly. Metaphorical, thank God, because he'd probably walk in front of one right now, if he could. “Did you...did you buy that stuff for me?”

“I know it was stupid, Tony. You don't have to remind me, okay? I get it. Rich people went on vacations and out to eat a lot and had TVs in every room. They had dishes that matched. I didn't know you were, you know,” Steve replied brusquely, waving a hand towards the space between them to apparently indicate really, really, obscenely wealthy, not just TV and fancy towel rich. “Thought maybe you'd, you know. Stay a bit longer, if you had some stuff like what you were used to.”

Tony blinked owlishly at him, then walked over to the dun-colored loveseat and flopped down, leaning his elbows against his knees and cradling his head in his hands. He didn't realize he was rocking back and forth until his knee hit the edge of the coffee table, making the textbook bounce hard enough to flip over a page.

“He told me he offered you five million dollars to leave me, and you took it,” Tony said to the empty space in front of him. He couldn't look at Steve as he said it. He should, but he couldn't. He was holding on by his nails, and there was a chasm waiting below filled with anger and guilt and so many what-ifs he thought he would shatter apart if he let go.

“Tony,” Steve said softly into the silence. It was the way he said it, with none of the vitriol or horror that was running through Tony's veins and wrapping itself, vice-like, around his heart, that wiped away any doubts Tony might have carried. There was pain in Steve's voice, it reeked of it, in fact, but it was all cloaked in empathy. It was pain for Tony, and that was what finally broke him. Tony's body was shaking with the force of great, heaving sobs when he felt Steve's hand splay across his back, warm and almost delicate in the way the weight of it just held him as he shook.

“Ah, Tony,” he heard Steve say, and felt the seat next to him bounce with the added weight as Steve sat down. He wasn't aware of thinking through the action of turning and burying his face into the curve of Steve's neck, but it opened some kind of pressure release valve when he did. The familiarity of it, the scratch of the start of a beard, the tang of disinfectant that Steve used at work mixed with the fresher scent of his soap and shampoo, how it made Tony feel warm deep inside, that was what he'd been waiting to fall into, he realized, feeling something that had been scabbering for purchase for years finally let go, and when he did, God, it felt like nothing he'd ever felt before and something he remembered all too well.

Steve hadn't taken the money. Steve had loved him. They could have this. He could have this again, all of it, without reservation, nothing held back, because this was real.

Steve loved him.

Steve _loved_ him.

“I'm sorry,” Steve breathed against the top of Tony's head. “I'm so, so sorry, Tony. God, why—why would he say that?”

“Because he both loathed and envied me. Because he needed me, and I was pulling away. Because he was giant asshole. Because he could. Take your pick,” Tony replied easily.

His limbs felt loose and bowstring tight at the same time, but he could feel relief and nervous excitement starting to leak past all the Slow, Men Working signs in his head. Steve had loved him. It had been real. All of it. And now, they had a second chance.

“Guess I didn't do such a good job at loving you, after all,” Steve whispered, warm breath curling into Tony's hair just above his ear. “You thinking that. No wonder you were upset. Reckon I can't much blame you for that.”

“Yeah, I was---wait...maybe I'd stay longer?” Tony said, pulling back to look up at Steve in question. “Steve...why do you think we got divorced?” Tony asked, pulling at the words with a disjointed sense of unreality. Steve's whole face shut down, going carefully blank again, before he disentangled himself from Tony and pushed off the loveseat.

“Steve?” Tony entreated again.

“Like you said. I mean, I didn't like how you said it, but, you weren't wrong,” Steve conceded in that same tired, listless tone, the last of his words punctuated by a hard glance at Tony.

“What--what I said? What did I say?” Tony rasped, brow drawing together as he tried to find his footing while the ground shifted underneath him. “Just. Please. Please tell me what I said,” Tony asked as calmly as he could manage.

Steve let out a long sigh, and crossed his arms over his chest again, hunching his shoulders forward like he was trying to make himself smaller, and maybe he was, which was somehow the the thing that sent fissures of horrified worry up and down Tony's spine.

“That night at your Dad's hotel room. We'd fought the day before. About that stupid shirt I messed up in the laundry. Not really that, I know, but...” Steve began, letting the words hang there.

“But, what?” Tony prodded. “What the hell, Steve?”

“You were there with your friends. I guess they were your friends, anyway. I'd never met them. You said,” Steve started, clearing his throat. “You said you'd had fun. You know. Sowing wild oats and all that. But, you couldn't live like that. Everyone understood. They were very sympathetic. That one guy once had a fling with the pool boy, he said. The girl—Whitney? She got her dance teacher fired after they were found out. She was much more discrete with the riding instructor though. Live and learn. You don't marry them, though. Important to remember,” Steve said woodenly.

Wow, Dad. That's impressive, truly. Getting Ty and Whit with the assist, there. Nicely done, Tony mentally scoffed, grinding his jaw together. Fuck. Fucking Ty, probably volunteered. Get Tony drunk, throw out the bait and watch Tony swim right for it.

“Howard stopped me in the hotel lobby as I was leaving. He knew we were on the outs, I guess. Said he liked me. Wanted to help. Guess not so much, huh? When you came back to the apartment the next day, you had the papers,” Steve continued in that same neutral tone that was probably going to be Tony's supervillain origin story. “You told me to sign them. Your, ah, your butler was there. You gave me your ring back.”

Gave was a bit of a kindness, Tony knew. Threw it at Steve's chest and made some derogatory comment about it being a piece of cheap shit anyway was more like it. He'd have to add shooting himself in his own foot to his resume.

Howard was an expert at playing on insecurities, and he and Steve both served their own up on silver platters. We believed it because we both already half-believed it, Tony realized. We did most of Howard's work for him, Tony thought with a sinking maw of realization opening up in his stomach.

“I--I tried to go talk to you again. I thought, maybe you'd change your mind. Maybe I could show you—you know, what I did with place, but then...then, you know,” Steve stammered, eyes dropping away from Tony's face. “They said I had to leave, so. So, that was it, I guess.”

“You—you tried to talk to me? When?” Tony questioned in a slow, cautious tone.

“I guess it makes more sense now. Why you were so mad, I mean. I still shouldn't have yelled.  That night. At the hotel. My dad. He yelled, you know? I don't do that,” Steve went on. Tony didn't know, but what else was new? Steve had never talked about his dad, except to say he wasn't in the picture, and Tony remembered thinking something along the lines of, 'Lucky you,' and letting the whole thing drop. “I didn't mean to scare you, though. No excuse, but. I didn't mean to,” Steve finished,mouth twisting into a grimace around the last words, for the first time in the entire recitation, every fucking terrible thing that had gotten screwed up, this was the fist time Tony could hear the slip of absolute, gutted pain into Steve's voice, the way it cracked and pitched on the end, the slight tremor that gave it away.

“Steve, what the hell are you talking about?” Tony asked again. “Who said you had to leave? Howard?”

“What did you think was going to happen, Tony? MIT. They kind of frown on that kind of thing from their employees,” Steve bit out. Tony shook his head in confusion at the words, which, in that order, didn't make any sense, just left Tony grasping at threads and feeling like he was looking at one of those illusion pictures that could be both an old hag and a young woman, both and neither at the same time.

“Hang on,” Steve said at Tony's dumbfounded look. He bent down and tugged a tri-folded sheet of paper out of the side of box where it had been buried behind the stack of letters that Tony would never receive, and handed it to Tony.

Tony realized he was still clutching the book of checks, which he was strangely reluctant to put down, and whatever was on that paper, he knew he didn't want to see it. Here there be dragons, he thought somewhat hysterically. There was nothing to do but take it, so he put the checks on the corner of the coffee table, and reached out to take the paper, unfolding it with a mounting sense of dread.

He would have thought it wasn't possible that this situation could get any shittier. Truly, you had to plumb the depths of hell to make it worse, but Howard clearly was up to the task.

The words 'Temporary Restraining Order' were emblazoned in bold letters across the top of the page. Tony's eyes scanned down to the bottom of the page where, yep, the same extremely friendly judge who had granted the dissolution and sealed the file had signed the order. Bet he got a nice, cushy job after retirement, Tony thought with a sharp, bitter pang. Bet we are going to be revisiting how much he is enjoying that retirement.

Steve was steadfastly staring at some point over Tony's shoulder, his eyes bright and jaw clenched so tight, Tony could have used the line of it as a level. There was a wash of emotions flickering behind his eyes, so many that Tony couldn't keep track, though Steve was holding himself almost preternaturally still.

“Steve, I didn't ask for this,” Tony began, then stopped, because his eyes caught the wording on the order and, as it turned out, this was the point where it was all just too much. “I didn't—this wasn't me. I swear it. This—Steve. This wasn't me.”

Defendant is hereby ordered not to abuse Complainant by physically harming, attempting to physically harm or placing Complainant in fear of imminent physical harm, and to stop harassing Complainant by any willful and malicious conduct aimed at Complainant and intended to cause fear, intimidation, abuse or damage to property.

Defendant is hereby ordered not to contact Complainant unless authorized to do so by the Court.

Defendant is hereby ordered to remain away from Complainant's place of residence and workplace unless authorized to do so by the Court.

He could imagine it. What something like this would have done to someone like Steve. The idea that he had scared Tony. That Tony went to this kind of length to get away from him. Because, you're a precious princess who must be protected, he recalled Rhodey's words. A joke, but only because they'd all believed it to be true back then. Steve and his mother-henning, showing up to walk Tony home from a late night at the lab or giving their neighbor such a stern talking to, the guy practically ran every time he saw Tony, much to Tony's utter delight. Skinny little nothing of a thing palling around with Barnes and getting his ass kicked because he couldn't figure out that walking away from the bully might be the better part of valor.

_My Dad. He yelled, you know. I don't do that._

Or maybe Steve knew that all too well, and just couldn't bring himself to walk away. There was a sharp, stabbing pain in Tony's gut making him want to curl in on himself until there wasn't anything left. He realized he had crumpled the paper in his fist as he was rubbing it against his leg and made himself stop.

Steve loved him.

Steve loved him enough that even this, _even this_ , hadn't been able to kill it. Not then. And it wasn't going to do it now.

“Steve,” Tony breathed out, blinking back against the sting that burned through his eyes. “You have to—I didn't ask for this. Please. Please, you have to believe me. Steve, _please._ Please, say you believe me.”

Tony's hands moved of their own accord to clutch at Steve's arms, and he knew he was shaking him, without really meaning to, but he couldn't seem to get himself to stop. He buried his head into the center of Steve's chest, his arms wrapping around him to claw at Steve's back. His face was wet, and he couldn't get enough air, and he needed Steve to say it. When he looked up, he could see the pulse jumping in Steve's neck to match the pounding in Tony's ears where Steve's heart throbbed against the side of Tony's head, though that was the only part of Steve that moved, the rest of him held rigid where he stood.

“Please, please, please, Steve, you have to believe me. I would never—this wasn't me, I swear, I swear it, Steve, please,” Tony begged, the words spilling out in great, wet heaves. He was grasping and tugging at Steve's shirt, like if he could just get closer, maybe Steve would believe him, which he knew didn't make any sense, but he couldn't seem to stop the impulse. “Whatever I said that night, I didn't mean it. I was drunk and hurt, and I wanted to hurt you. You were everything to me, and I thought you only cared about the money, and it hurt so fucking much. I didn't know about that—that thing,” Tony babbled on, still unable to say the words that would give that piece of paper any kind of spark of life between them now. “I would never, ever say those things about you. I wasn't scared! God, not of you. Never. Never, Steve. I was pissed. Pissed and hurt, and dammit, fuck! I'm sorry, Steve. I'm so damn sorry. Please. Please, believe me.”

“I believe you, Tony,” Steve finally rasped out, one hand coming up to curl against Tony's back, rubbing up and down for a few, soothing strokes before he dropped it down to join the other at his side.

“Okay. Okay, okay, you believe me, okay,” Tony stammered, caught off-guard. “So, we're okay now, then, right? We're okay.”

“We're okay, Tony,” Steve replied after Tony felt him shift a bit under his hands, his tone going soft and gentle. Sad, Tony thought, then immediately wanted to reject the idea that was worming its way through his stomach.

“So. Okay, so great. We're okay. We-we are okay, right?” Tony asked again, going stiff with the wave of jittery concern that washed through him. “Steve, we—I mean, I know its soon, God. Okay, that was a lot—Jesus, I'm still—I don't. I don't know what I'm saying, but...I mean, we can. We can. What we had before, we can—look, come back to the Tower tonight. We'll, I don't know, talk. Crazy concept, but it could happen. You can meet Pepper for real, without the awkward part where she wants to use her shoe as a weapon. We'll, just, you know. Just, be together. Hang out. Catch up. I'll order in. You still steak and potatoes? I'm saying...I'm saying, you know, we'll just...just...why, ah, why isn't there, like, rising music and relieved, but enthusiastic make-up kissing happening?” Tony asked in a disgruntled tone, looking up at Steve.

“Steve? Steve, can you say something here?” Tony prodded after another beat of silence that seemed to stretch into something quieter. The not saying kind of silence, and it was starting to terrify him. As was the fact that he was holding on to Steve like a lifeline, and Steve was standing there against the kitchen counter making no effort to reciprocate. That...seemed problematic. “You said. You said you believed me. You said we're okay. You said.”

“Tony. Come on. Don't. Don't do this. I'm sorry, more sorry than I think I can say, that you thought...what you thought. But, it's not like we were ever going to grow old together in the first place,” Steve said in a quiet, steady voice that drove something sharp into Tony's chest, pounding it deeper and deeper with each word, because this was Steve at his most sure, most certain, the point when he'd made a decision, and each word just ratcheted up what was already inevitable in his mind. “I'm—I'm glad you didn't do the, the thing. I'm glad you didn't mean it. What you said then. But, you weren't wrong, Tony. You and me, we never made sense. Everyone knew it. We knew it, too. Look at how easily we fell apart,” he pointed out, probably in a reasonable enough manner, but Tony couldn't hear him over the rush of static blaring through his ears.

“Steve—you're kidding me with this, right?” Tony protested incredulously. “I love you. I have loved you since I threw up on your shoes. What the hell are you talking about? You said we were okay! We screwed up, but...but that doesn't...we have the rest of our lives to figure this out. Come, come back to the Tower. Just, come with me. Rhodey's in the car outside, probably killing it on CandyCrush, feel free to mock him for the suburban mom named Ashley we all know lives deep inside him. This—this is a lot to process. I get that. But, just. Just, come with me. We'll talk it out. We'll...we'll figure it out. Just. Just come with me.”

“Tony. What are we going to talk about, up there at your Tower, you and me? Same thing we “talked” about when we were in college, because its probably overly optimistic that's going to take all night,” Steve deadpanned, pushing himself off the the counter and sliding out from Tony's hands. “Maybe that gets you past whatever this is. One for old time's sake. It isn't going to change anything. Look, I got class,” Steve announced, making Tony gape at him. “I gotta go, Tony.”

Steve was leaving. Him. Steve was leaving him. Pleasepleaseplease. The refrain kept lighting up across Tony's head, like a scroll across one of the Times Square billboards, and he just wanted it to stop. All of it. Everything. He needed to hit the pause button, catch his breath or...or something, but this was slipping away somehow, running through his hands like water. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to hold, just this space where Steve was supposed to be, and damn it, damn it, damn it, this was not how this was supposed to go.

“You gotta go. You have class?” Tony sputtered frantically. This wasn't happening. Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker. Steve was going to walk out that door and call this some kind of goodbye, when they were supposed to be starting. “Steve, history isn't changing. Skip the fucking class. Come to the—you know what, forget it, I'll stay here. We'll order a pizza. You just—you think about this. You just need time to think. I had time, before I came over here. I sprung this on you, and you just...you need some time. Time. To think. You'll see. I'm right. You just—you take some time. That's fine. I'm fine with that. Fine,” Tony offered, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

“I don't need time to think about it, Tony. I've had ten years to realize that you were right. Not how I wanted to hear it said, I'll admit, but you had the right of it. Even if you don't think you were right now. This is—you're just—you're caught up in something that isn't real, Tony. It never was. You were right., what you said. Maybe for the wrong reasons, but you were right. You usually are,” Steve said as he bent over to shove textbooks and folders into his backpack.

“This? Fucking hell. This is what I was right about?” Tony shouted, eyeing the ceiling, looking for commiseration or dispensation, he wasn't sure which, while Steve gave him a confused, slightly concerned look. “Steve. I do not need time to think about this. I need you to...to...” _love me_. “To realize that we got monumentally screwed over, but—but, we get this second chance. We can get it right this time. You and me, like we were before. We were happy for God's sake! How can you not want to at least try this?”

Steve had stopped filling his backpack, gone still mid-motion so one hand was still holding the end of a book while the other held the bag. He wasn't looking at Tony, and Tony followed his gaze to the line of glass vases on the bookshelf by the pictures and the files.

“I can't, Tony. I can't wait around for you to figure out that you had it right all those years ago. We're from totally different worlds. We got nothing in common. What are we going to say to each other to make up for that?” Steve questioned softly. “You're you, and I'm...I'm not what you need. You—right now, you feel guilty or, I don't know, maybe you want to get back at your Dad or prove something, but...you're going to think this through and, eventually, you're going to see it. I just can't stick around while you do. I can't do that again. Please don't ask it of me. Please, Tony. I can't.”

“Steve,” Tony pleaded, voice going reed-thin because he couldn't seem to get enough air in his lungs. This could not seriously be happening. He wasn't going to get Steve back only to lose him again. “Whatever I did or said to make you think this...I didn't mean it. I swear. I was drunk and stupid and Ty and the rest of them were doing everything they could to help me dig my own grave, just please, please, you have to believe me, I--”

“Not you, Tony. Just is what it is,” Steve replied. He finished packing the backpack and started towards the door. “I gotta go. Stay if you want. Neighbor has a key. He can lock up. Just knock on his door three times. Hard, or he won't hear you.”

“You're really going to do this, aren't you?” Tony asked. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping and tugging for a minute just to make sure this wasn't some kind of horrible dream.

“You're going to see I'm right about this when you've had time to think,” Steve answered stubbornly, without looking up from the doorknob. “Look at what you've done with your life, Tony. Look at who you are. You and me, we don't make any sense. We never did. You're gonna see that once you get a chance to really think about it.”

“Steve,” Tony breathed out, pleading now.

“I can't handle losing you again, Tony. Please don't ask it of me,” Steve said softly. He pulled the door open and stepped out into the hallway, closing it behind him and leaving Tony alone in the apartment.

Steve left him.

Steve left him.

His heart was throbbing painfully in his chest, his breath hitching with each drag of air. He looked down at the restraining order crumpled on the table where he'd dropped it, the book of checks with Spock and his Captain being ridiculously gay for each other, and over to the box where a broken piece of nothing circuitry held the promise of everything he could've been.

Steve didn't have the benefit of ten years of watching as Tony tried to get over him. He had ten years of thinking Tony saw him as an annoyance or a whim on a good day, someone to be chased off by angry villagers with pitchforks on a bad one. Tony had been so caught up in his own loss, he was only now starting to get a glimmer of what had been taken from Steve.

Steve's whole self-image had been shaken to its foundations, all because Howard wanted to be sure they stayed apart, and he had known Tony wouldn't be the one to take the risk of being hurt again. That would have been Steve, who would have tried until he at least heard it straight from Tony, not filtered through too much vodka and too many hangers-on stoking the flames while Tony's world burned. Steve, brave-faced and full of righteous indignation, would have tried. So, Howard had to make sure that didn't happen.

He loves me, Tony thought, not for the first time tonight, but finally hearing it for the first time. _I can't handle losing you again_. He always loved me. He's hurt and scared, but he came back. Before. He came back for me, or he tried to, and if I'd crawled out of my hole of self-pity long enough, I could have seen that. I could've gone to him. I could've been the brave one. For him, I could've done that.

Well. My turn, then.

Tony lunged for the door, nearly knocking his knee on the coffee table as he went. Steve was rounding the steps by the time Tony got out the door, though he slowed when he saw Tony appear.

“Ha. Nice try, Rogers. Well, you want to know something? Your premise is flawed,” Tony told him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, raising a challenging eyebrow. “You think I care about TVs and towels and dishes that match? You think that's what I need? Someone with a few letters after their name, I can trade triple-score kinds of words with? Someone I can sit around and have bank account-measuring contests with, talk about how well our crocodile skin umbrella handles the rain between the curb and Louis Vuitton or how coffee made from civet droppings leaves no aftertaste? That what you think?”

“Don't do this,” Steve breathed out, his hand flexing on the railing before he looked at Tony. “Can you just not make this any more difficult than it already is?”

“Uh, that would be a giant, resounding no that you're hearing echo down the street, there, Steven,” Tony said. He circled the stair railing and hopped down the few steps to where Steve was standing, looking resolutely at the ceiling and trying his damnedest not to give Tony what he wanted. Lost cause, thy name is Steve Rogers trying to ignore me, Tony thought with grim determination. “Don't you have class?” Tony asked pointedly.

Steve shot him a questioning, disgruntled look, but started down the steps again, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Tony followed just behind him, which earned him another look, but Steve was being decidedly uncommunicative, which, for Steve, meant communicating everything with body language that was currently trying to shake Tony loose like he'd asked if Steve knew his Lord and Savior.

As they made the front of the building Tony waved to the car window, behind which he assumed Rhodey was making a what-the-hell-face. He followed Steve down to the bus stop and stood next to him, rubbing at his arms in the cold. Would've brought his coat if he'd known the evening would involve the outdoor variety of stalking.

“What are you doing?” Steve finally surrendered and asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the storefront across the street.

“We're going to class. Honestly, Steve, if you are having memory issues, we should really get those checked out,” Tony replied evenly. “Don't worry, you probably just hit your head falling out of the Stubborn-Ass Idiot Tree.”

“ _I_ am going to class. _You_ are going back to your Tower,” Steve objected sternly, bless his heart, Tony thought with a bubble of almost-laughter. He was giddy, slightly punchy with it, he knew. Steve was an idiot, sure, but Steve was an idiot who loved him. Loved him enough to try to walk away because he thought Tony wanted or deserved someone better. Better, Tony humphed. God, Steve, you self-sacrificing ass, Tony thought with a rush of fondness. I'm going to fix this, come hell or high water, so you're just going to have to deal with it.

A large white, blue-striped bus pulled up, tires splashing through the sludge that trickled along the edge of the road. A woman with a toddler bundled up in a pink Hello Kitty jacket stepped on first, then Steve, and Tony followed behind him. He felt his phone vibrate in his suit pocket. Rhodey, he assumed. Steve passed by the driver and sat down. Tony moved after him, grinning at Steve's look.

“Sir?” the bus driver cut in, reaching a hand out towards a machine next to Tony's arm. “You need to swipe your card.”

“My card?” Tony asked, then let his gaze slide over to Steve, who was leaning back in his seat, arms wrapped around his backpack, giving Tony a knowing look.

“Your transit card. You need to swipe your card to ride, Sir,” the driver responded.

“I'll give you,” Tony began, pulling out his wallet. “Let's see...a thousand dollars, if you we can agree that a card based system of technology for rapid public transit is wildly outdated.”

“Here,” Steve cut in, leaning in front of Tony to swipe his card. “He's kidding,” Steve told the driver, frowning at Tony.

“A thousand dollars?” the driver asked.

“Sure,” Tony replied evenly.

“No,” Steve said at the same time, shooting Tony a stern look of disapproval.

“Hey, aren't you Tony Stark?” the driver questioned, brows drawing together.

“No,” Steve replied quickly.

“Rogers-Stark,” Tony corrected happily.

“Stop it,” Steve objected.

“Fine, Stark-Rogers, but only because I like the checks. He got me checks,” Tony told the driver, who was watching the two of them like they were on the grass court at Wimbledon. “That was sweet. Did I tell you that was sweet?” Tony asked as he followed Steve back to an empty bench, the bus rumbling underneath him as it moved. The phone in Tony's pocket vibrated again, seemingly more insistently this time. He tugged it out and pushed the call button.

“Hey, Rhode-house, how's it going?” Tony said by way of greeting.

“Um, Tony? What are you doing?” Rhodey asked.

“Well,” Tony started, drawing out the word and giving Steve a long-suffering look. “Huge misunderstanding. Steve didn't take the money. He borrowed some from Howard. Paid it back, too, which, yeah, that grates. But, he's a stand-up guy like that. He got this crazy idea in his head that I was just working my way through the help or something, and there's a judge that I'm going to have to go all fire-and-brimstone on because there was a, ah—Jesus, Rhodes, there was a—a legal misunderstanding. Of the restraining order kind.”

“Shit, man, you serious? For real? How?” Rhodey stuttered.

“Nevermind for now. I'll get Pepper on it. Point is, he loves me, like, really loves me, Rhodes, and I'm crazy about him, but we knew that. One, tiny problem. He currently thinks we don't belong together, and is being stubborn about the whole thing. Shocking behavior from Steve Rogers, I know, but there you go. I'm working on it,” Tony added, giving Steve a wide grin.

“Put the boy on the phone,” Rhodey demanded brusquely.

“He wants to talk to you,” Tony intoned with no small amount of glee, turning to Steve and holding out the phone. Steve sighed and reached out to pluck Tony's phone from his hand.

“Hi, James,” Steve said with a put-upon sigh. He rubbed one hand over his forehead, mouth flattening as Tony watched. “Yes, I know,” Steve said after a long minute of silence. “I know he got on a city bus. He's right here next to me,” Steve continued, giving Tony a pointed look. “Well, I don't think that's really up to you...I'm not trying to hurt him. That's not--I'm trying....Yes...Yes, I realize he thinks that right now....I think I have a better handle on—no, I haven't hit my head lately...No, I'm not on drugs...Hey, don't start on the Army, James, that's outside the line. Here, talk to Tony,” Steve finished, shoving the phone at Tony's chest with an aggrieved look.

“You see what I mean?” Tony asked when he got the phone back up to his ear.

“In the military, we refer to this as your basic SNAFU. You sure about this? When I told you I'd chase him down with you again, I didn't figure you'd have to take me up on it,” Rhodey amended.

“He got me Star Trek checks,” Tony told him, the words soft with meaning.

Next to him, he watched Steve lean his forehead against the bus window as the city streaked by through the glass. He wondered what was going through Steve's mind, if it was as filled with questions and hopes as his own, or if Steve was too scared to let himself feel this, too used to a narrative that said he couldn't have it, wasn't good enough. Probably the latter. But, Tony was nothing if not able to see the possibilities in something broken.

“Time to call in reinforcements, then, I guess,” Rhodey announced, pulling Tony from his reverie.

“You thinking what I'm thinking?” Tony asked, raising his eyebrows at Steve, who studiously ignored him.

“The big gun? Consider it done,” Rhodey agreed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank my 1990s era employer, we will call it Tiny Bank, for giving me the completely outdated knowledge of how wires worked at that time so that I could one day incorporate this into gay fan fic about sometimes-superheroes.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony hit the end button on the phone and pocketed it, sparing a glance at Steve, who was sitting stiff-backed and intently studying the back of the bus seat in front of him, like it might offer some guidance beyond calling Patrick for a good time and that Duncan is an a-hole. 

“So, after class, I figure, we can grab a bite to eat.  Want to hit the student union for old time's sake?” Tony prodded.  “Don’t answer now,” Tony amended quickly when Steve remained steadfastly silent.  “Give it some thought. Good idea.  Take your time.”

 “Ah,” Tony began, then realized he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. 

His head was still full of these bright bursts of possibility, and everything else, all the practical, realistic things he probably should be thinking about had been shunted to the background, behind the idea that he could love Steve, fully and without reservation.  He couldn’t help it, half-giddy with the heady, punchdrunk sensation of Steve next to him, fitting into place like a key to a door he hadn’t known was locked. 

“We could go out somewhere. For dinner, I mean.  Not the union, that’s—that’s stupid, right?  We’re not kids anymore.  Someplace quiet.  Just us, maybe. I could have Pepper arrange it.  You want? Or, just coffee, I don’t know,” Tony stumbled around the words, none of them sounding right. “I know you’re…processing everything.  I get that.  Lot to…lot to think about.  I’m—you know, I’ll just.  I’ll just wait.  I’ll wait.  You think.”

Tony looked over at Steve and had to physically resist the urge to reach out and touch him, run a hand through his hair, make this a bit more real then it currently felt.  This is real, he told himself, almost firmly enough to believe it.  Steve was freaking out, not without some justification, Tony could admit.  But, it was temporary.  There was just…no other option that his mind would let him think about.  Steve needed time.  He was in shock, most likely.  Steve always liked to think things through, plan, be prepared for contingencies, Tony thought, thinking back to the composition notebook with its careful budget and list of job prospects.  He’s just…getting his head around things, Tony told himself with as much conviction as he could muster.

Tony wasn’t sure if he was telling himself these things because they were objectively true or because he couldn’t handle thinking about the other possibility.  Steve would come around.  He would.  He had to.  Tony could give him that time. Granted, patience was never one of his strong suits, but for Steve, he could do it.  He could give Steve at least that.  He could.  It was just…hard to quell the desire to do more than wait.  His whole world was suddenly thrown open to him, and telling himself to take it one step at a time felt like the equivalent of grinding to a halt.  There was so much he wanted, for him, for Steve, for them, because there could be a them now, and that…how was he supposed to do anything except grab onto that with both hands?

Distraction, he supposed.  If he couldn’t have everything he needed just now, he could have something he very much wanted.  Tony scrolled through his messages, deleting most of them that were not from Pepper, then did a quick internet search for their oh-so-cooperative judge, who obviously needed to be punished.

“Son of a bitch!” Tony shouted when the information popped up on the screen.  “You have got to be kidding---look at this,” Tony demanded holding the phone up in front of Steve’s face, who promptly looked out the window again and hunched himself around his backpack.  “He’s on one of my Boards.  You are shitting me.  I am…oh, hell no.  I am paying this asshole?  I’ll be he has stock options.  How is this…Christ.  How is this my life?  You know, a little shared outrage would not be out of place here, Steven,” Tony grumbled in frustration, shaking the phone in Steve’s general direction. 

Steve glanced at the phone long enough to see the former judge’s photo staring back at him before quickly looking away.

_I guess it makes more sense now. Why you were so mad, I mean.  I still shouldn't have yelled.  My dad.  He yelled, you know?  I don't do that._

This man.  This judge.  Enjoying a comfortable retirement courtesy of Howard, coming to the occasional Board meeting and listening to advisors tell him how to vote between rounds of golf and drinks at the club.  This man made Steve feel like that.  He made Steve think Tony was afraid of him, or that Tony wanted Steve out of his life enough to say he was, at least.  He could imagine it, Steve getting that restraining order.  Some process server showing up and delivering it.  At work, where it was easier to find him, probably.  The students would’ve seen, would have looked at the deputy handing something to the janitor.  How shocking, they would have said, patting themselves on the back for their surprise, because they weren’t the kind of people who looked down on people like Steve, oh no, not them.  But, behind all the clutching of pearls, there would have been the kind of acceptance that comes only from expectation. 

_They said I had to leave._

Tony could see it so clearly in his head.  Steve, pushing his cart, cleaning up the heaps of Starbucks cups and cigarette butts the build-up to finals week left behind, trying to actually do a good job because he cared, wanted things to look nice, liked being useful, he said.  What had he thought when the deputy showed up? When he looked at the paper?  When he saw those words? Lies, Tony corrected. Those lies.  Lies that this man had legitimized.  Lies that this man put the power of the state behind.  Lies that this man made real, at least to Steve.  Did they wait until the end of his shift to fire him?  Did someone watch him clean out his locker?  Did they escort him off campus? Because this…this person, signed an order that said Steve was dangerous.  

He couldn’t think about it, but, of course, it was all he could think about. 

Howard was beyond Tony’s reach, but this man was entirely too close.  He could pull Judge Friendly’s life apart, piece by piece, until it was as broken as Tony and Steve’s.  It wasn’t everything, but it was something, he thought, with a surge of anticipation so sharp and strong, he could feel his whole body tighten with it like a bowstring. 

“I don’t think the account’s open anymore,” Steve said to the back of the bus seat, startling Tony so badly it took him a minute to figure out what Steve was talking about.  “They sent me something.  Awhile back. About it going dormant, I think they said. There wasn’t much in it, anyway.  Just the jar money.  Guess you don’t really need your half now.”

The phantom smell of copper and pickles drifted through his head.  The jar money.  God, he’d forgotten the stupid jar money.  Some old, empty pickle jar with a nattily dressed stork on the front they’d converted into a place to drop coins and the rare dollar bill that might end up forgotten in pockets before laundry day.  They told themselves they were saving up to do something stupid with it, though Tony couldn’t quite remember if they’d ever settled on anything in particular. Mostly, they had just talked about things they’d do one day, when One Day was still on the menu. 

“So, you know.  If you want to keep them.  The checks.  You can,” Steve finished, each word sounding like it was being slowly and carefully formed. Maybe it was.  He had one hand clenched around the backpack strap and one wrapped around the front, hugging it to him. 

Tony shut down the search screen on his phone, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the hard edge of the bus seat.  If he let himself go down that path, he’d probably never leave it again.  And Steve was here, and needed Tony, not some half-life of him that could be spared from whatever pyrrhic victory ruining this judge’s life was going to be. 

He signed heavily and rubbed the fingers of one hand into his temples, tapping the phone against his chin before pushing himself up again.  He looked over at Steve, who was still pondering the douchery of Duncan, but Tony was left with the feeling that if he had looked a split-second sooner, Steve would’ve been looking at him.  He scrubbed his free hand over his face and hit the call button for Pepper.

“Tony? I just talked to James.  What in the world is going on?” Pepper said by way of greeting.  “Are you on a bus?  Like, an actual bus?  I’m going to need a picture.”

“Yeah, lots to discuss, Pep, but, first things first. There’s a former judge from Boston sitting on the Board of Directors for one of our subs.  VectraTech.  Little software start-up we funded about seven years ago. Name’s Arthur Mitchell.  I’ll figure out what else to do with him later, but get him off that Board.  I don’t care what you have to do,” Tony ordered.  “Nice, cushy, post-retirement job sitting on a Board.  Payment for services rendered, I guess.  Jesus.  I want him gone, Pep.  First thing tomorrow.  I don’t want him anywhere near anything of…of ours.  Okay?  First thing.”

“Of course.  You know I’ll take care of it, Tony,” Pepper promised.  “But what is…wait.  This is…this is the one who signed the restraining order?  And sealed your divorce records, right?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, massaging a hand into the sides of his forehead where the sudden spike of anger-fueled pressure was throbbing against his temples.  “Just handle it, okay? I’ll figure out something else later, but for now. I don’t want him getting up another morning thinking I don’t know what he did.”

“Tony, I think I can safely say that there is nothing I would like better than to make sure he knows exactly that.  Anything else?” Pepper asked, her tone gentling.

“No.  No, unless you can convince Steve that I haven’t stopped loving him for ten years, so the chances of me letting go of this are somewhere between none and none,” Tony groused, shooting Steve a disgruntled look, which was ignored, except for the way the muscle in Steve’s jaw ticked against the taut, pale skin.

“Put him on the phone, and give me five minutes,” Pepper said, a smile in her voice.  Tony huffed out a low, shaky laugh and narrowed his eyes at Steve. 

“Tempting, but that didn’t work so well when Rhodey tried.  Think I have to do this myself, but thanks, Pep.  You’re the best,” Tony acknowledged.  “Pepper says hi, and you’re wrong about me, by the way,” he told Steve. 

“Nothing to do with you, Tony,” Steve replied, going back to staring at the back of the bus seat in front of them.   “Just trying to keep us both from doing something we’d end up regretting.”

“The only thing I regret is how much we’ve missed.  Damn it, Steve, can you just—“ Tony began, the frustration and fear creeping into his voice before he could push it back down. 

“You really Tony Stark?” a woman in a bulky coat clutching one of those reusable bags proclaiming it a big, brown bag on the side cut in, leaning forward a bit in her seat across the aisle from them. 

“Stark-Rogers,” Tony replied easily.  He couldn’t help grin at the way it rolled off his tongue.  Each time he said it, it felt more true, more real, and there was comfort in that, saying it out loud to the world. 

“What’re ya doin’ oin d’bus?” the elderly man next to her asked, though it took Tony a second to decipher the mush of words.  It sounded like the man chewed them up and spat them out as he spoke.   

“Well, funny story,” Tony began.  “This guy,” he said, pointing at Steve.  “Is my husband,” Tony explained, splaying his hands wide as he turned in his seat a bit.  “But, he has this insane idea that I’ll up and decide I’m too much of a pretentious douche to love this great guy who happens to love me back.  I’m winning him over, though.  Slow going, at the moment, I’ll admit, but we have checks with both our names on it and that’s, like, practically a binding, legal document.  Ferengi Sixteenth Rule of Acquisition, a deal is a deal.  It’s a thing.”

“Why you bein’ so stubborn about it?” the woman asked, directing the question over Tony’s shoulder at Steve.

“Yeah, Steve.  Why you being stubborn about it?” Tony repeated canting his head towards Steve with an exaggeratedly quizzical rise of his eyebrows.  

When he was working on the reactor, one of the main issues had been buckling at the pressure points.  No matter how many different ways he’d reinforced the design, each test had come back with some version of the same issue.  Change a valve here, add a neutralization medium there, but the same issue kept cropping up over and over.   Too much pressure in the system and nowhere for it to go except out.

He knew he had pushed Steve too far exactly half a second after the words were out of his mouth, but it was already too late. 

“Goddammit, Tony, is this a joke to you?  Some game? This is my life.  My _life_ ,” Steve bit out, voice cracking and snapping across the words. 

“Steve, no, I didn’t—“ Tony tried, holding his hands out in front of him in a stop motion.

“I didn’t ask for this, you know.  Any of it.   You show up and throw more papers at me--I was fine,” Steve insisted, voice shaking with the effort.  “I was doing just fine, and now you’re—just stop.  Whatever this is, guilt or reliving the past or—whatever you think you have to prove to yourself--just stop it.  I’m askin’, Tony.  This—you made your point okay?  I get it. You’re sorry.  You didn’t mean what happened.  Great. Fine.  This—this fantasy or whatever—whatever you’ve got built up in your head, you need to let it go.  We can’t go back.  We’re not those people anymore.  Or, I’m not, anyway.  You—you want something that can’t exist, not now, if it ever even did.  Just—enough, Tony.  _Enough_.”

“Steve…” Tony began, with no idea how to end it.  There was so much pain in Steve’s voice, Tony could barely hear the words that were blanketing it.  “Don’t do this.  Please.  Please, just listen—“

“Everyone got that?  We all on the same page?” Steve asked the rest of the bus, his voice going icy and brittle in a way that didn’t sound like a Steve who Tony knew.  “Good. This is my stop,” he ground out and stood up, shoving past Tony and towards the bus’s middle door.  “Rhodes is three cars behind us, trying to make a Bentley look unobtrusive in Brooklyn.  You can get out here and wait for him,” Steve told him without turning around.  “He’ll get you home.”

The bus crawled to a halt, and the doors swung inward. Steve stepped off and into the crush of people moving up and down the street.  Tony looked around, one hand gripping the raised metal handrail on the seat in front of him.  He could see his own distorted reflection in it.  Maybe this whole thing was all messed up in his head.  When the certainty had spring into his head in Steve’s apartment, convincing Steve to give them a second chance had seemed more like a long conversation, a bit of romancing and probably more than a few post-coital discussions away, not this huge, impassable gulf.  

“Well?” the woman said, quirking her head at an angle and nodding towards the open bus doors where a few other passengers were stepping off.  “Don’t just sit there. Go after him!”

“Had a girl in Poughkeepsie I shoulda chased,” the elderly man mused.  “Dorothy was’r name.  Great legs.”

“Uh, right.  Thanks,” Tony said.  He slid out of the seat and moved towards the doors just as they started to close, waving a hand between them to stop them from shutting.  “Sorry,” he called out to the driver, when they swung open again. 

Steve’s dark, blonde head was easy enough spot, even ducked down against the cold wind. He was one of the few students not moving as part of a roving pack this time of night.  The field in front of Brooklyn College's clock tower was awash in muddy slush, left over from the last snow and a thousand or so feet tromping across it with regularity, when Tony stepped his black Testoni onto it, leaving what he was sure was the classiest footprint in his wake as he jogged across it, breaths coming out in smoky, white puffs. 

By the time he caught up with Steve, his throat was raw from the cold air and his lungs hurt, but the twin bursts of strain did manage to drive away the crush of helplessness that had taken over while he was listening to Steve spew out his frustrations and fear.

Keep the checks and leave. 

God, there had to be such a strange war going on in Steve’s head, Tony told himself, though he wasn’t sure if it was true or just what he had to let himself believe.  Tony was ten steps into their future, and Steve was still deciding on fight or flight.  Obviously, leaning a bit more towards flight at the moment, Tony thought grimly as he cupped a hand under his ribs, where the muscle was pinched and stinging.

Okay.  Okay, so this wasn’t going to be an over-and-done apology dinner.  Steve was hurting, and Steve didn’t trust that this thing between them wasn’t going to evaporate again, maybe not the way it had before, but, for Steve, this was something that could still be taken away again on Tony’s whim.  Which meant, Tony had to show him that wasn’t going to happen.  He could do this.

“Steve, wait,” Tony rasped out, reaching out one hand to grab for Steve’s upper arm enough to slow him down.  “Look, Steve.  So, ah,” he coughed into his hand.  “Okay, so I get that you’re not exactly ready to believe in this.  Us.  Not saying I don’t understand why.  I do.  But, you’re wrong.  Really, incredibly wrong. About me.  Just so you know. See, I’m in love with you.  You.  Steve Rogers.  Not some college fantasy edition I made up in my head.  Hell, I even love how unrelentingly stubborn you can be. Though, right now, I could use a little less of that, quite frankly.  Don’t mean to judge. Just saying.”

“Oh, I’m the stubborn one?  You stalked me onto a bus.  You’re following me across campus.  And for what?  To prove a point?  To be right?  What do you want, Tony?” Steve demanded, pulling himself up short, which let Tony catch his breath.

“I want…I want another chance. For us.  I told you. I want us,” Tony pleaded.  He didn’t realize he’d done it, but he felt Steve’s hand warm around his and realized he was clutching it to his chest, tapping a beat for emphasis, fingers twining through Steve’s.  And, God, was there memory there, he thought, falling into the touch, the feel of Steve’s hand wrapped around his. He swallowed thickly and looked up at Steve’s face, awash in a weary sort of grief, carried for so long it could stretch over Steve like a second skin.

“God, Tony—We’ve already done this!  Where do you think this ends?” Steve gutted out.  “It ends the same place as before, that’s where.  If you’d stop and use that brain of yours to think for two seconds, you’d see that,” Steve said, running his free hand through his hair.  “Tonight was…a lot happened.  I get that.  You need to just…just settle down and think this through.  You’re…upset and…and you’re not thinking clearly right now,” Steve insisted, shouldering his backpack and stomping off, or trying to, anyway.   

“Maybe it would be easier if I could.  Walk away, I mean,” Tony called out. “But, I couldn’t manage that ten years ago, and I hated you.  I sure as hell can’t do it now.  Steve, please, I’m not playing some kind of game,” Tony said, reaching up to grab Steve’s shoulder and hauling him back.  “I’m not doing this to hurt you.  God, Steve, that’s the last thing I want to do.  I’m doing this because I can’t do anything else.  I can’t go back to not having you in my life, because you— _you_ are my life. The life I wanted. The life I chose.  The life I was supposed to have. That’s with you.  So.  So, I can’t just walk away, because there is nothing to walk back to. Everything I want is here.  If I need to spend the next ten years convincing you of that, then that’s ten years better spent than doing anything else I can imagine.”

“Tony,” Steve breathed out, voice cracking on the end. 

“I’m scared, too.  Terrified, actually.  I’m not letting myself think about how scared I am.  That I’m too late.  That you’re really this far away from me.  Jarvis—he tried, you know.  Screwed up the paperwork, probably figuring we’d have to talk to each other, figure things out,” Tony said.  “Maybe I’m being selfish here, I don’t know.  Maybe I should give you space.  Time.  I should.  I really should.  If I were a better man, I’d do it.  If you love someone, let them go, right?  Well, fuck that.  I’m a selfish bastard, Steve, and I’m not going to give this up without a fight. We let each other go once, and it made us both miserable.  Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” Steve said, keeping his eyes on the building in front of him.

“Well.  You.  See, you can’t just say stuff like that and expect me to walk away!  Doesn’t work that way. _I_ don’t work that way.  I think you know that,” Tony replied, voice low and insistent.  “I think you don’t know what you want.  That’s okay.  I’ve got all the time in the world for you to figure it out.”

“Tony…” Steve started, mouth flattening around the word.  “This is crazy.  You know that, right?  God, I can’t…” he broke off, running his hand, the injured one, Tony noted, up and down over the center his chest in a tight fist, the fingers working and rubbing against each other in a nervous, stuttering gesture.  Steve was shaking his head, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a hiss of breath.  “I can’t do this.”

“I know,” Tony breathed out.  “I know.  It’s okay, Steve.  Look, I had ten years of not having you.  Ten years,” Tony repeated, his voice breaking with a wave of emotion.  “Ten years of waiting for my life to start again.  And it never did.  So, I got time.  I’ve got all the time you need.  But, if you think I’m going to spend another minute of my life not telling you that I love you, then you’re insane.  You don’t want to say it back now?  That’s okay.  Maybe you don’t ever want to say it back. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop telling you.  That’s not how this works.  And you’re going to be late for class if you argue with me about it any longer.”

Steve’s mouth twisted into a frown, and he tugged at his backpack, clearly torn between an innate sense of punctuality and wanting to argue more with Tony.  He finally turned and walked towards one of the newer concrete, highrise blocks that dotted the campus, with Tony following a step behind, feeling a bit victorious, though he couldn’t say exactly why.   Probably because Steve didn’t let the door slam into his face when they entered the building.  Baby steps and all that.  

They took the steps up to one of the large lecture halls, with its rows of seats spread out in a rising semi-circle from the professor’s lectern at the center of the room, in front of a large projection screen that where the Microsoft logo bounced around like it was playing Pong, which, when you thought about it, was oddly apt.

“What are you doing, Tony?” Steve finally asked when Tony sat down in one of the wobbly, wooden chairs next to Steve at the back of the room, farthest from the professor.

“Oh, are you speaking to me again?  Well, we’re going to class,” Tony replied nonchalantly.  “Did you miss the part about me not spending another minute away from you.  Granted, that…sounds more threatening than I mean, but work with me here.”

“You’re not a student, Tony.  You can’t be here,” Steve protested as he unzipped his backpack and pulled his textbook, two highlighters and an assortment of half-chewed pens with various business logos on them that made Tony want to weep when his mind flashed to Steve chewing on the end of a charcoal pencil while he figured out how to get what he wanted to draw to somehow leave his head and come to life on the page.   It was strangely comforting, the normalcy of the habit.

“Why not?  It’s a free country,” Tony observed, looking around.  The class was fairly sparsely attended, either due to the material or a New York winter that kept any rationally minded student who was clearly not named Steve Rogers inside where God intended them to be. 

“That’s…not what that means,” Steve said through gritted teeth. 

“Steve, literally no one cares that I’m here,” Tony said, leaning back in the chair and then promptly deciding that was a bad plan as it shook back and forth, scraping the floor noisily. 

“Hey, aren’t you Tony Stark?” a student on the row in front of them asked, giving Tony a speculative look.

Steve shot Tony a disgruntled, I-told-you-so look that was blindingly familiar.

“Stark-Rogers,” Tony replied.  “But, in a general sense, yes.”

“Wow.  Cool.  Eh, can I get a selfie with you?” the student requested.

“Sure.  No gang signs, though,” Tony admonished as the student leaned in and held out his phone with one arm.

“Good thing no one cares you’re here,” Steve said with a slight roll of his eyes, pulling a notebook out of his backpack and opening it up to where the writing stopped and a fresh, white page waited. What had to be the jump-up in technology from papyrus scrolls came next, some kind of recording device that Steve set out in front of him, presumably for the monks to dip their ink in. 

“What the hell is that?” Tony asked, picking it up. 

“It’s…it’s a recorder.  For the lecture,” Steve answered, not looking at Tony.  There was some kind of landmine here that Tony couldn’t quite see yet, but Steve had gone from trying desperately not to give Tony the time of day to an awkward sort of hyper-awareness that made his sit stiff and straight-faced in his chair. 

“Okay, class, let’s get started.  Tonight’s topic covers last weeks’ reading, the United States’ role in the First World War,” the professor intoned as a powerpoint slide jolted to life on the screen. 

Scintillating, Tony thought a few minutes later, forgetting and trying to lean back in the chair, only to be fucked over by physics once more.  He got a long look from the professor down front, who was clearly gearing up for his next round of Buellers or whatever it was he was going on about, but ignored it. 

“Aren’t you…?” the professor began, eyes narrowing in Tony’s direction.

“He’s a guest,” Steve interrupted loudly.  “Just for tonight.”

“Not true,” Tony objected.

“He won’t be a problem, Professor,” Steve said with a sharp look at Tony.

“Highly unlikely,” Tony replied. 

“If you plan on auditing the class, you’ll need to take it up with the Registrar,” the professor said.

“I will do that,” Tony promised, giving Steve a satisfied look.

“You’re sure you’re not…”  the professor continued with a frown. 

“Just someone who is very interested in history and how it continues to screw us over today,” Tony interrupted, raising an eyebrow at Steve, who was pretending to study his notes. 

 “Right.  Right, well, as I was saying,” the professor continued, giving Tony another long look before launching into some spiel about isolationism. 

Tony tuned him out and tried to think up some plan for regaining Steve’s willingness to try this whole relationship thing that didn’t involve begging, lavish gifts and blow jobs.  Or, at least, best two out of three, he figured.  It took a few minutes for him to notice what Steve was doing, and when he did, this, for some reason, this was the thing that made the whole damn evening’s worth of shitty revelations almost too much. 

The relic Steve called a recorder was dutifully spooling around its micro-cassette while Steve wrote down page references and short hand notes in his notebook.  Because, of course, with his hand like that, he couldn’t keep up with the lecture, so this was a stop gap he’d fill in later, probably going over and over the tape to get everything. 

It was the diligence of it. The essential Steve-ness of finding a task that should be damn near insurmountably difficult and doing it anyway.  The sheer effort involved in something, which, judging by the number of students happily clicking away on their phones, was lost on most people who were just here for the easy A. 

Well, dear husband, you have come to the right place, Tony thought, mentally cracking his knuckles as he pulled out his phone and started typing out long lines of code.  This. This one thing.  This, he could fix. 

Baby steps.

The basics of the program already existed in a digital secretary app they used for remote meetings, luckily, which meant he could just cannibalize it a bit to do what he needed.  When he was satisfied, he typed out a quick message to Pepper and sat back to wait.  Twenty-five excruciating minutes that spanned 1915-1917 later, and there was finally a knock on the classroom door. 

The professor looked confused for a moment, then more confounded when the door opened and the runner Pepper must have sent poked his head in. 

“Uh, delivery for Mr. Stark, ah, Mr. Stark-Rogers,” the young man corrected quickly, spying Tony. 

“Finally,” Tony said. 

“I’m in the middle of a class,” the professor objected.

“Spoiler alert, Allies win,” Tony blurted out.  “Eventually. Sort of.  Anyway, up here,” Tony called out, motioning for the courier. 

“What are you doing?” Steve hissed out under his breath. 

“Got you something,” Tony replied, taking the briefcase from the courier and putting the code into the lock, making the latches snap open.  “Here,” he said, taking the laptop out and opening it up in front of Steve.  “This is a little something we’ve been working on since…well, 1915-ish.  Watch,” Tony said, nodding at the laptop screen.

“Mr. Rogers…I hate to interrupt your guest with my lecture, but may I continue now?” the professor asked smartly.

“Sorry, Professor,” Steve replied, giving Tony a frustrated look.  “Won’t happen again.”

“See, look,” Tony demonstrated in a low voice as the professor picked back up somewhere around the Zimmerman Telegram.  On the screen, the program automatically transcribed the lecture, even cross-referencing the pages in the textbook, which Tony had found online and linked to the program’s algorithm, so it could find keywords and topics.  “Bit of a prototype, but I’ll work on it some more.  And the keyboard’s ergonomic, so it’ll be easier for you to position your hand.  Few other bells and whistles.”

“I—that—“ Steve stammered, watching the professor’s words appear across the screen.  “That’s nice, Tony, but my way was fine.  I don’t need—whatever this is.”

“Oh, God, you’re not seriously going to…you love my gadgets.  Come on, tell me how much you love it.  I know you do,” Tony said with more confidence than he felt.  “Look, your recorder is broken anyway,” Tony pointed out.

“No it isn’t,” Steve said, frowning down in confusion at the recorder. 

“Here, let me see,” Tony said, holding out a hand.  Steve put the recorder in it, and Tony turned it over in his hand, studying it, then banged it against the edge of the desktop.  “Yep.  Broken.”

“Tony!” Steve yelped, grabbing for the recorder.  “What the hell—“

“Really, Mr. Rogers, if you and your guest need to chat, I’ll have to kindly ask you to leave,” the professor intoned with enough pompous annoyance to set Tony’s hackles on edge. 

“Let’s take him up on it,” Tony urged.  “You should be in art school, anyway.  Come on, you don’t even like this stuff.  You’re taking this because you think you missed too much math and science to make up, taking care of your mom and all.  I know you.  You find the repetitiveness of the human race’s desire to fuck each other over just depressing.  You like things that are beautiful.  You want to create.  You want to make something that speaks to people, not sit and listen to Doomed to Repeat Itself 101,” Tony protested. 

“Mr. Rogers! And, uh, guest.  I’m going to have to insist—“ the professor started.

“Oh, pipe down, Snape, they’re both Aconite,” Tony called out caustically, to a round of sniggers. 

“Well.  We don’t always get what we want, do we?” Steve replied quietly, but he put his pencil down and sat forward on his elbows like he was engrossed in the lecture, though, every now and then, Tony could see his eyes slip down to watch the text flow across the screen.

When the class finally ended, Steve carefully shut the laptop and handed it to Tony. 

“Nuh-uh, yours.  Keep it,” Tony said, pushing it back at Steve. 

“Tony, I can’t.  Thank you, but…I can’t,” Steve objected.  “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Fine.  Hey, selfie-guy?” Tony shouted at the departing crush of students.  “Yeah, you.  I’ll give you a thousand bucks a week if you take care of this computer and bring it to class for my better half here to use until he decides to stop being ridiculous.”

“Really, Mr. Stark?  I mean, Stark-Rogers,” the kid corrected quickly.

 “No. Tony.  Do not.  No.  He’s not—he’s not serious.  Stop it,” Steve stuttered.  “Sorry, Shane.  Here.  Give it here.  Tony, you can’t just do stuff like that.”

“You used to skip lunch.  When we were really, really broke, those last couple of days before you got paid.  Wednesday and Thursday, every two weeks. Those were the worst,” Tony told him.  “I saw your budget.  I can do math.”

“You saw…” Steve started, frowning in confusion.

“I shouldn’t have gone through your stuff, I know, but I did.  Massive invasion of privacy and all that.  I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.  You should’ve told me how tight things were,” Tony said, picking at a fissure in the wood on the edge of the desk. Probably from an antique cassette recorder.  “But, instead, you just let me go on, eating with my friends at the union, so I wouldn’t have to tell them I didn’t have the money.  It didn’t occur to me to even ask you about things like that.  Poverty tourism. That’s what they call it these days.  Rich people trying their hand at being poor.  I should’ve asked.  I should’ve done a lot of things differently, but not seeing how hard things were for you, with your mom and her bills and suddenly another mouth to feed and keep caffeinated…I didn’t know.  I really didn’t.  But, I knew you, and I should’ve seen it.  I’m sorry for that.”

“You went through my stuff?” Steve asked quietly, his hands gripping the seams of the red backpack that was laying, partially open, on top of the desk. 

“Yeah,” Tony admitted.  “When your drunk neighbor let me in your apartment.”

“Did you read the letters?” Steve asked after a long minute of heavy silence.

“Yes,” Tony acknowledged.  “God, I know I shouldn’t have.  I shouldn’t have looked.  No excuse.  Everything about you was a damn black hole that didn’t make any sense, and I got started, and then…I didn’t stop.  I saw the ledger, but I didn’t put two and two together and get five thousand instead of five million until you said it.  I saw the circuit panel,” he said hoarsely, raising suddenly watery eyes to Steve’s.  “I still have Marvin.  In a drawer in my workshop.  I tried to throw him out so many times over the years, he probably thinks the trash bin is his second home. I tried.  But, I never could let go.  Not entirely.  So.  So, you’re just going to have to deal with the laptop.  Probably a few other things.”

“You don’t need to do that, Tony,” Steve responded with a weary sigh.  He started shoving the recorder, well, the pieces of recorder, into his bookbag, with a sort of tightly-held frown.

“It’s not guilt.  I know what you’re thinking,” Tony cut in at Steve’s look.  “It isn’t.  It’s…I used to think about it.  All the time.  The things we’d do when I got out of school, made our fortune.  Could give you what you deserved,” Tony said with a deprecating shrug.  “Trips.  Cars.  Fancy dinners.  Show you off a bit.  Show off _for_ you a bit.  That’s how I was going to keep you, when you inevitably came to your senses.  Ironic, huh?”

“I never wanted any of that,” Steve said quietly.

“I know.  Which makes me want to give it to you even more. See?  Irony.  Hey, don’t give me that look.  You were the one out playing a fucked-up version of Gift of the Magi with your little shopping spree.  Did you really think I cared about that stuff?” Tony questioned.  “I know I complained sometimes.  I know.  I’m not saying I’m proud of that, but, Steve, I went from never having to even think about money to thinking about it constantly. If I missed some things in the transition, well.  I was trying, okay?  Maybe I was terrible at it, but I tried.”

“I know you did,” Steve replied.  “You didn’t complain.  Okay, you did,” he amended at Tony’s raised eyebrows.  “But, you—you always made the best of it.  Remember when the power got cut off, and you did something to the wiring so we could get enough juice to plug in those Christmas lights we got at Goodwill?”

“We ate everything in the ‘fridge before it went bad,” Tony recalled.  “God, I don’t think I’ve ever been so sick.  What were we thinking? Death by condiment, obviously.  Why did we have so many jars of pickles anyway?  Who needs that many pickles?”

Steve let out a low chuckle.  “I used to get the just out of date stuff from the little grocer on campus.  Had an in with the night manager,” Steve confessed, swiping a hand over his mouth with the admission.  “One time, it was just a bunch of pickles.”

“So we were eating out of date pickles with our condiment soup and warm beer?  Seriously, how did we not die?” Tony chortled at the memory. 

“Worst meal I’ve had this side of an MRE,” Steve replied, ducking his head, but not before Tony saw the fond smile.

“Hey,” Tony said softly.  “I really am sorry about the letters.”

Steve sucked in a breath, pausing for a moment.  “Guess they were for you, anyway,” he said finally. 

“Why’d you stop? Writing them, I mean?” Tony asked. 

“Ran out of things I wanted to tell you about,” Steve said, swallowing heavily and looking away, making Tony wonder about all the things that soldiers don’t write home about, those times when the veil is thin and you can’t really put it to words on paper.  “Then, got my arm messed up.  Couldn’t write much of anything.  Learned to use my left a bit, but,” Steve shrugged. “What was I going to say?  What am I going to say now?  That’s the problem, Tony.  We’re fine when we’re sitting here reminiscing.  But, come on, that’s—that’s only going to last so long before we get tired of that.  What are we going to talk about then?”

“Anything,” Tony said, grabbing Steve’s hand and wrapping his own around it.  “You can talk to me about anything.  I want to hear it. Whatever it is.”

“You want to hear it?  You want to hear about how I can’t draw anymore?  How I can barely make those stupid vases Sam insisted I try?  How some days, my back’s so bad, I gotta choose between the pain or being so doped up on the meds, I can’t think?  How I wake up screaming sometimes because, maybe it was just a loaf of bread, I don’t know? How I hear a car backfiring and I want to duck?  How I look for exits as soon as I walk in a room?  How I have to be at the back of the class, so the wall’s behind me, and not other people?” Steve bit out, slamming his backpack down on the desktop and bracing his knuckles against the wood, rocking back and forth slightly.  “I got nothing to say to you, Tony. That person, the one you fell in love with, the one who hung up Christmas lights with you and ate weight in mustard packets?  The one who wrote those letters?  He’s gone.  He doesn’t exist anymore.   You’re having this fantasy where we go back, pick up where we left off.  There’s nothing to pick up, Tony.  Whatever it was, its gone.  Over.  And you can’t buy it back.  Not even you.  You need to get that through your head.”

“I—Steve! Wait.  Damn it,” Tony cursed as Steve grabbed his backpack and brushed behind where Tony sat, headed for the door.  Tony got up too quickly and sent the wobbly chair clattering to the ground, then nearly tripped over the legs.  Well, the furniture was clearly on Steve’s side, Tony thought dully as he raced after Steve’s departing back.  He didn’t know what to say to Steve’s outburst, except that he’d take virtually any crack in Steve’s carefully-crafted wall of neutrality—fucking hell, that was from the lecture.  God, he hated accidentally paying attention.  Felt like he was giving the simpering blowhard a win somehow.

He caught up with Steve on the steps, though barely, because Steve wasn’t exactly slowing his steps this time, and Tony had to dodge far too many people ignoring what was really the only staircase rule of etiquette that mattered.  Up to the right, down to the left.  Jesus, people, and we claim to be a civilized society, there are actual rails to guide you, Tony mentally grumbled as he wove through the mass of students leaving or going to class.

“Yes, I want to hear that,” Tony huffed out when he caught up to Steve.  “All of that.  I want to hear that while we figure out ways to make those things better or easier or more bearable, or, if we can’t do any of that, I want to hear that because you need to say it.”

“Go home, Tony,” Steve flung out over his shoulder. 

“I’m trying, you ass,” Tony shouted back over a throng of students cutting their way between them.  “You want me to go through every messed up thing about me?  We’re going to need to sit down. This might take a while.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it,” Steve protested as he pushed open the building’s door, sending a rush of cold night air into Tony’s lungs.  “Go home, Tony,” he said again, sounding tired and defeated in a way Steve never should, and started back across the must of a greenspace again.

“I’m not going to stand out here and freeze while I tell you the incredible number of ways you’re wrong about this.  Look, the car’s right over there,” Tony said, pointing to where the car was parked just outside the scrolling, metalwork entry gates that framed the clocktower in the background.

“I can take the bus,” Steve replied curtly, glancing down the street where the bus had dropped them off earlier.

“Come on. Get in.  Steve, get in. At least let me give you a ride,” Tony insisted when Steve started to object.  “Don’t make me get on the bus again.  I don’t have one of those card thingies, and it’ll just get awkward.  Come on,” Tony said, making an encouraging motion with his hand.  “Really?  Fine.  But, those cards are non-transferable, and if some transit cop with a publicity fetish arrests me over a bus pass, you and I are going to have words, Steven.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but ducked his head against the wind and followed along next to Tony as they walked across the rather euphemistically named green towards the car.  Rhodey pushed open the back door as they approached and leaned out with a grin that quickly faded as Tony shook his head fervently to the side and make a slashing motion with one hand. 

Rhodey scooted back across the seat, and Tony held the door, sweeping out a hand for Steve to crawl in next, mainly because he was fairly sure if he left Steve for last, Steve would bolt, and he didn’t relish a footrace that ended in another ride on New York’s less classy mode of public transit/public urinal.

“Hey, James,” Steve said as he ducked his head and climbed in. 

“Steve. Tony.  How, ah…how’d class go?” Rhodey asked hesitantly.

“History is still exactly the same we left it,” Tony replied glumly as he shut the door.  “In so many ways.  Steve’s place, Happy,” he called out with a disgruntled look at Steve, who was staring at the back of Happy’s head like he could will the man to go faster.  Lost cause, Tony thought, as the car rolled forward and edged carefully into traffic while the three of them huddled in the back seat, with Steve’s backpack on the floor between his knees. 

“So,” Rhodey remarked into the silence.

“Yeah,” Tony agreed with equal enthusiasm.  This whole evening had gone off the rails, from the confrontation with Steve to Tony’s less than enthusiastically received attempts to…to what?  Pick up where they left off. That’s what Steve thought.  Turn back the clock to something that wasn’t there anymore.  God, Tony thought, slumping in the seat and running a hand over his face.  They’d made such a mess of this, he thought, half-listening to Rhodey attempt small talk.

“Anyone think the Mets have a shot this year?” Rhodey asked. 

“Not with all those injuries. Manuel will be out by the end of the season, you watch,” Steve predicted.  “Shouldn’t have paid that much for Bay.  And letting Putz go?”

“Yeah. Heard the White Sox picked him up, though,” Rhode commented.  “You still keep up with the Red Sox?”

“Some.  Don’t think they’re going to do much this year, but they got a lot of talent there.  Maybe they’ll at least hand the Yankees a loss,” Steve said with a hopeful note in his voice. 

“Hey, I like the Yankees,” Rhodey said mildly, leaning back in his seat.  “Kind of the classic team, right?” 

“Let me out.  I’ll walk,” Steve deadpanned, giving Rhodey a withering look. 

“Oh, right. Brooklyn.  Still bitter, huh?” Rhode laughed, wiping a hand across his mouth.  “I forgot about that.  You and Barnes.  You two ever make it out to L.A. to see them play?”

“No,” Steve replied simply, because of course, he hadn’t, what with fighting a war and having exactly zero of those five million big ones to spend, thus ending the conversation, such as it was. 

“Right,” Rhodey replied, raising his eyebrows at the awkwardness and giving Tony a look over Steve’s back.  What happened, he mouthed at Tony.  Tony just shook his head.  He didn’t really know how to answer that, except Steve was trying his best to push him away, and Tony was clinging to old letters and bits of circuitry like lifelines.

“How was class?” Rhodey tried.

“Fine,” Steve replied. 

“Okay, so we’re just done with talking, I guess?  Tones, you wanna help me out here?”  Rhodey asked glibly, quirking his eyebrow at Tony and jerking his head towards Steve. 

“I don’t know why you think we don’t have anything to say to each other,” Tony said sarcastically to Steve, then leaned his elbow against the darkened car window and chewed on his lower lip. 

They rode the rest of the way back to Steve’s building in the loudest silence Tony had ever heard. Rhodey, bless him, tried mentioning the weather and complaining about the tourists who seemed to stop as they walked in some kind of predetermined pattern designed to slow pedestrian traffic as much as humanly possible, generally safe topics for New Yorkers, that elicited a few mumbled hmmms and nods from Steve.  

The route to Steve’s building blocked by the typical traffic that shows up out of nowhere and the constant war between taxi that needs to go and delivery truck that needs to stop, so they sat in stilted silence punctuated by angry car horns strongly suggesting the truck move.  Tony could feel the clock ticking on his time with Steve, who had practically assumed a runner’s starting- gate stance as the car slowed.

“I can get out here,” Steve offered.  He wrapped a hand around his backpack and started to twist towards the door. 

“It’ll only be a minute,” Tony said dully.  Steve gave him a long look, but sat back in his seat and looked down at the backpack sitting between his feet on the floor of the car. 

“Nice laptop,” Rhodey remarked evenly. 

“It…writes.  On its own.  What the Professor is saying.  Just…writes it.  Tony made it,” Steve said, which wasn’t quite true, though Tony didn’t correct him, because Steve had said it like it was the most wonderful, amazing thing, and it was so familiar, that tone, the warm burst of pleasure deep in his chest when he heard it, the way his stomach turned somersaults, and his mind let him believe it.

Tony could feel Rhodey looking at him with yet more questions he didn’t have answers for, but he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Steve’s profile long enough to return the favor.  Steve loved him. But, Steve was scared.  Of this, of losing this again, of not being enough, which was ridiculous, but the way to convince Steve of that probably wasn’t following him to class and reminding him, however unintentionally, how much things had changed for both of them. 

This Steve, the one who was a little harder at the edges, a little more broken in the center, the one who went to work pushing a mop and spent his free time trying to figure out how to make something beautiful again, even if his body wouldn’t cooperate, this Steve needed a chance to fall in love with Tony again.  With Tony as he was now, a little harder at the center, a little more broken at the edges.  Maybe they both needed that chance. 

Happy maneuvered the car into what amounted to half a space, good enough for New York parking. Tony pushed the car door open and climbed out.  Steve followed, and Rhodey scooted across the seat far enough to lean his head out.  Tony shook his head, and Rhodey grabbed the door handle and pulled it closed, leaving Steve and Tony standing in nearly the same spots they’d been standing in a few days ago when Tony had barreled back into Steve’s carefully ordered life and turned it upside down.

“I’ll walk you up,” Tony offered, nodding to Steve.

“You don’t have do to that, Tony,” Steve replied.  Tony could hear the, not weariness, not really, but a sort of burnt-out edge to Steve’s voice, the way a used matched crumbles into ash when it is finally just done. 

“I’ll walk you up,” Tony said again, his voice low, making it an actual offer.  “I’d like to walk you up.  If that’s alright,” Tony asked, eyes pricking against the wind or whatever it was swirling in his head. 

There was an expectant quiet stretching between them, so thin, Tony thought he’d be the one to break it, but he forced himself not to push.  All he’d done tonight was push, and it had gotten him a fat lot of nowhere.     Steve dropped his eyes to his shoes, where he was toeing a line in the slush that piled on the edge of the sidewalk, then back up at Tony, eyes narrowed against the wind that whipped down the street and kept blowing Tony’s hair over his eyes.

“S’alright.  I guess,” Steve finally said in a gravelly tone, his throat working around the words.  He hefted the backpack a bit on his shoulder and shrugged, aiming for a nonchalance that Steve could never pull off.  “If you want.”

“I want,” Tony replied firmly.  He held out an arm in front of him with a wide sweep of his hand.  “After you.”

Steve gave him a dubious look, then started towards the building.  He pushed open the door to the vestibule and held it for Tony, who ducked under his arm and into the blessed, well, semi-warmth of the building.  The heat from the radiators didn’t quite make it to the small entryway, leaving it chilled and vaguely musty smelling. Probably had asbestos.  And mold.  The things you do for love.

They took the stairs in silence, but Tony didn’t think he was just projecting to say it wasn’t as awkward as in the car. 

“Thanks.  Again.  For the computer,” Steve clarified as they walked up the third set of steps.  “You really didn’t have to do that.  You needed to, you know, have fun with your friends.  For the lunches. It was fine.  So.  So, you don’t need to worry about it, okay?  It was a long time ago,” Steve said, hefting the backpack forward on his shoulder.  He sounded embarrassed, Tony thought, which, if anything Tony was the blind idiot who should be ashamed of himself. 

“The list of people who put me first is pretty short, so if you think I’m going to just pretend you’re not on it, you’ve got another thing coming,” Tony replied tightly, then let out a breath.  “I’m not—I told you, this isn’t guilt. This is…okay, fine, there’s some guilt.  You win. Happy?  But, it isn’t just guilt, it’s…can I like doing things for you?  Why am I worrying about this?  You like the thing.  Hell, you _love_ the thing.  You love it because I made it—you said, don’t think I didn’t hear it---you think the thing is completely awesome.  You’re going to go into your crappy apartment, shut the door in my face and play with the thing. Wait. That sounded wrong.”

“You still have DUM-E?” Steve asked.  He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but only because he was trying not to. 

“Yes.  At the Tower.  Come back and marry me and see him,” Tony huffed back.  “I’ll program him to officiate.  Remember that cryptkeeper we had in Vermont?  Smelled like—“

“Mothballs,” Steve interjected with a wrinkle of his nose.   

“Right.  He looked so disapproving,” Tony recalled. 

“To be fair, we’d just made out in Rhodey’s car, and your shirt was buttoned all wrong,” Steve said with a smile as they hit the fourth floor landing.  “And I think I was still, uh, really happy to see the leaves change.”

“There was that,” Tony mused with a grin.  “It’s easy.  Isn’t it?  I know what you think.  Remembering all those good times, that I’m just trying to recapture some romanticized college fling.  We’re different now. Both of us.  You’re not wrong about that.  But, Steve, some things…some things don’t change.  How I feel about you?  That hasn’t changed And I’m betting it hasn’t changed for you, either.  Not really.  Not where it counts.”

“It’s not…Tony, that was a long time ago.  You’ve had a shock today.  You—you just need to give this time, and you’ll see.  You’ll think about it, and see.  You—you have this life, and I’m—how would I even begin to fit in there?  I don’t.  I don’t, and we both know it, you’re just…whatever you are about this,” Steve said with the same weary tone from earlier as he slowed to a halt outside his door.  “You’ve got this idea in your head that we can just…turn back the clock, and we can’t.  What happened, it was awful, and I hate it, for you, for me, for what you thought for all those years, but…come on, Tony, you gotta see that this was never going to be a happily ever after.”

“You think I’ve loved someone who lives in a box of memories, but I love the guy who stood out on the street, saw me for the first time after a decade of hating me, and asked if I was okay.  The guy who sees my Tower for what it is?  He’s the same one who sees me for who I am.  The guy who gives me checks he’s held onto for a decade because they make me happy,” Tony tried, his voice quavering as he spoke.  “The guy who should hate me enough to want to take everything from me, but who keeps giving me what he can, over and over.  That’s the guy I want to get to know.   I think---I think that guy and I.  I think we’d have a shot.  I think we could be good together.”

“Tony,” Steve breathed out as he slowed to a halt outside his apartment door. 

“Not now.  I get it,” Tony said quickly, slashing a hand through the air. “You’re not ready, you’re scared of going through what we did before, only worse this time because you know you’ll hate yourself for falling for it again, and that’s—I get it.  Don’t like it, but, believe it or not, I get it,” Tony said, scrunching up his face at the words.  He leaned back against the wall next to Steve’s neighbor’s apartment where the paint was peeling to a tacky tan material underneath.  “And, I’m a very patient man.”

“Since when?” Steve asked, with a quirk of his mouth.

“Since now.  Since I have a reason to wait,” Tony responded and reached a hand behind him to knock on the door of 7/11’s favorite customer.  “Yo, Bluto,” Tony called out, turning his head towards the seam in the door of what would be 4A, if anyone had bothered to mark the door. 

“What are you doing?” Steve questioned curiously, head cocked to one side.  He had his keys halfway extended towards the door, but had stopped, mid-motion at Tony’s actions.

“Being patient,” Tony replied.  The door snapped open with a click next to his head, and Slurpee Dude stuck his head out. 

“Heya, Steve, how’s it hanging?” Neighbor Guy asked.

“Ah. Fine. I guess—“ Steve started.

“Listen up, discount Arthur, I have a proposition for you,” Tony interjected, crossing his arms over his chest.  “You know who I am?”

“Sure.  You’re Steve’s lawyer,” Neighbor replied, making Tony roll his eyes.

“Okay, really?  Forget it.  Look, and pay attention, because this is going to be on the quiz.  I’m Tony Stark.  You heard that name somewhere between deciding on the Blue Raspberry for your Blue Goose?  Okay,” Tony said when the man nodded sluggishly.  “Going to need you to focus here, can you do that?”

“Tony, what are you doing,” Steve said with a sigh in his voice. 

“Being patient, I told you. Hush,” Tony replied, shooting him an exasperated look. 

“Here’s the deal, I’ll give you twenty thousand a month for your apartment, but I need you to leave, like, right now,” Tony told him.  “Out. Vamoose. Gone.  You and…whatever bottles you can carry.”

“Are you serious?” Neighbor Guy asked blearily, slurring his way around the words.  “Dude!”

“He’s not serious,” Steve objected.  “Tony, stop.  Just.  No.  You can’t keep throwing money around like--this is insane.  He’s not…he’s not serious.”

“Completely serious,” Tony assured him.  “Here,” Tony said, digging into the inner pocket of his coat and pulling out a business card.  “This is my assistant’s information.  Go see her tomorrow morning first thing. Stark Tower.  Big building with my name on it.  Can’t miss it.  There’s a car downstairs that’s going to take you to the Ritz while I get to inhabit your charming abode, capiche?” 

“Tony, you can’t do this,” Steve protested again, turning around and taking a step towards Tony. He was looking between Tony and his neighbor like he half expected one of them to let him in on the joke.  “You---Tony, come on.  You can’t—you.  Stop it.  Come on, he’s going to believe you,” Steve said, nodding at his neighbor, who sucked a long drink from the ubiquitous Styrofoam cup in his hand, then ducked inside his apartment where, and Tony had to physically resist the urge to roll his eyes again, the sounds of bottles clinking together could be heard. 

“Steve, I can, and I am.  You need time.  Like I said, totally get that.  But, see, problem,” Tony pointed out. “I’ve spent ten years without you, and I don’t have any interest in spending another minute somewhere that you’re not.  So, you’re here.  Well.  Unless you can look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me, then I’m here, too,” Tony announced, giving Steve a long, challenging look. 

It was a gambit, he knew.  Giving Steve a way out that Tony desperately hoped he wouldn’t be willing to take, but, the truth was, he didn’t think Steve would take it for the same reason Steve let him use his bus card.  Steve wasn’t going to leave Tony hanging, no matter what.  It just wasn’t in him.  Tony was willing to bet, well, everything on that.

“You about packed up, there, Dante?”  Tony shouted through the partially opened door.

“Tony---you—you can’t do this,” Steve said weakly. 

“Give me one good reason why not,” Tony replied easily.

“There’s…there’s no subletting,” Steve answered.  Which, Tony thought, was about the most Steve thing possible to say, so he grinned and pulled out his phone, hitting the first contact on the list.

“Ah, hey, Pep, how’s it going?  Listen, how quickly can we buy a building?” Tony asked, watching Steve’s head jerk back and his whole body stiffen in surprise.  “Yeah, the owner here is really unreasonable with their leasing provisions, and Steve’s a stickler for that sort of thing.”

“What are you doing?” Pepper asked carefully. 

“Moving in next door to Steve,” Tony replied.  “While you’re at it, I’m going to need to make a few minor, ah, scratch that, we’re gutting the place,” Tony said as he leaned around and peeked in the door.  “Good Christ, this looks like the place Coachella comes to die.  I take it the coconut bong was yours?” Tony accused, giving Steve’s neighbor a disgusted grimace, which earned him a shrug.

“Tony, stop.  You’re not buying the building. That’s—that’s ridiculous,” Steve said.  “He’s not—he’s not really doing this,” Steve told his neighbor.

“Uh, you can put a stop to this one of two ways,” Tony said, holding the phone away from his mouth.  “Admit I’m right and come back to the Tower with me.  You know, that place with the Olympic-sized pool, sauna, private chef, gym, king-sized bed, all that.  Or, you can tell me I’m wrong, and you don’t love me,” Tony finished.  He’d already won, so it was easier this time.  Steve wasn’t going to lie, not about this, and he was halfway to taking Tony up on his offer, he just didn’t know it yet.  No subletting.  Honestly.  It was adorable.  “Pep, you getting all this?”

“I am,” Pepper said, a smile in her voice.  “I’ll be over in a bit and take a look at what we’re dealing with.  I already have JARVIS pulling the property records, so I’ll find out about ownership and take care of that, along with our dear enforcer of justice first thing in the morning.  Legal is already drawing up the removal paperwork on him.  Think he’ll put up a fight?” 

“I sincerely hope so.  You, out,” Tony told Steve’s neighbor, who was still standing there with a pillow case that seemed to hold half a liquor store.  He pointed and jerked his head towards the stairs, widening his eyes insistently.  “Go.  Now. Bye.”

“Hey, thanks again, man,” Neighbor Guy said with a smiling nod.  “Ritz.  Classy.”

“You’ll fit right in.  Out,” Tony repeated.  “Remind me to tell Pepper to make sure the hotel does not give him the access to the minibar.  It might actually bankrupt me,” Tony said to Steve, watching the man’s noisy departure. 

“Tony, this is…this is crazy, you know that, right?” Steve said.  “You can’t…buy a building and stay in some terrible apartment just to…”

“Just to be with you,” Tony finished for him, making Steve huff out a breath of air and look down and away.  “I can, actually.  Now.  You have work tomorrow.  Bed,” Tony said, pushing himself off the wall and peering inside the doorway. 

Admittedly, this was not one of his most thought out plans, he acknowledged, looking at the cramped apartment that seemed to have…something…on every surface.  There was a small sofa against one wall and a table and chairs on the other.  One of those old TVs with the bubble out the back was sitting somewhat precariously on a wooden TV tray.  The kitchen looked like some version of a rodent army’s demilitarized zone.

“Tony—you--you’re not really going to stay there,” Steve said.  “There’s…there’s a hotel…couple a’blocks from here.  Not a great one…but.”

“You haven’t really met Pepper.  Give it a day, this place will look like a million bucks.  I mean, probably right around that, because getting people to come to Brooklyn this time of night is pricey, but let’s just say it won’t be the first all-nighter I pull and for a much worthier cause.  So, bed.  Unless you want company,” Tony offered nonchalantly. 

Steve blinked at him, then blushed, and tried to ignore him.  Good luck with that, Tony thought with a small, knowing smirk.  Steve was a lot of things, but oblivious to Tony was not one of them.

“You proved your point, Tony.  Can you—can you just stop this now?” Steve ground out. 

“Sure.  Let’s go to Vegas and renew our vows,” Tony suggested. 

“Tony—“ Steve started, sounding frustrated and tired, which, to be fair, he probably was, Tony admitted.  Hell of a day all around.

“I know, I’m going to change my mind.   We’re different people.  I’ll thank you for being a giant, stubborn ass later. Other things I’m ignoring.  Blah, blah, blah.  Run along, now, dear, you have work tomorrow,” Tony tutted. 

From his vantage point outside his new apartment, Tony watched Steve struggle with getting the key in the lock, standing on that boring blue doormat, in front of the sharpied apartment number on his door, and felt his whole chest tighten, then expand with a rush of warm so real and right that he found himself shaking a bit with it.  Tony swallowed thickly and looked down at his shoes. They were crusted with mud from his jaunt across Steve’s campus, probably ruined, but Steve had looked at his laptop and told Rhodey that Tony had made it, and he thought that might be the first thing he’d built in a long time where he actually wanted that to be true.

Tony heard Steve’s door click open and looked up. Steve disappeared inside, then turned around and looked out at him through the opening with an expression caught between confusion and disbelief. 

“Night!” Tony called out.  “If the noise bothers you tonight, you can take it up with the building’s owner,” Tony offered with a grin.

“Learned to sleep through pretty much anything in the Army,” Steve said, giving him a considering look.  “You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?”

“Patience is a virtue,” Tony replied, raising his eyebrows. 

“Pretty sure this…this is pure, bull-headed obstinance,” Steve said.

“You’re the expert,” Tony answered with a shrug.  “Bed.  Go.  Long day and all that.  Sleep on me. It.  Maybe you’ll see things clearly in the morning.”

“You’re going to.  You’re…you’re really going to be here?” Steve asked, looking down for a moment before lifting his gaze to Tony’s again.  “In the morning.”

“Yeah,” Tony said softly, after a beat.  “I’m going to be here.”

Steve looked over his shoulder, up and down and around the tiny apartment like it held some kind of answer for that.  Tony could see him biting his lip, but when he turned back to face Tony, his face was slack and soft, younger somehow.

“Okay,” Steve said, then shut the door with a soft snick. 

Tony stared at the door a moment longer, then let out a long hiss of breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  He lifted the phone to his ear again, and stood there, leaning against the wall next to the door of his new apartment in his soon-to-be-new building. 

“You get all that?” Tony said into the phone.  He could almost feel the force of Steve’s stare through the door.  He was one hundred percent certain that Steve was on the other side of it, hearing the murmur of Tony’s voice in the hall and wondering what the holy hell had happened to his life in the past few hours.  Fair enough question, all things considered. 

“I’m in a cab on my way over,” Pepper replied, sounding harried.  “I texted Deborah. She’s doing a Fifth Avenue brownstone, but she’s on her way, too.  And I had David pull some folks off the Tower job, so we’ve got people. He wants to know what the hell is open in Brooklyn all night that has drywall.  He has an architect friend who does small spaces.  Caught him at the end of a dinner date, so he’s on his way over, too.  We’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Pep,” Tony said. “See you soon, okay?”

“I can’t believe I’m coordinating redecorating of a Brooklyn studio at ten o’clock at night so my boss can woo his almost-ex,” Pepper said teasingly.  “You know, this wasn’t exactly in the job description.”

“Uh, clause two-hundred and fifteen, I think,” Tony corrected, splaying his free hand over his forehead and rubbing at his temples with his thumb and forefinger.  “You really should read the fine print.  It’s there for a reason.”

“Everything’s going to be okay.  You know that, right?” she pressed. 

“Yeah,” Tony said after a short pause.  He looked down at his shoes, and toed some of the mud off against the wall with a dull thud.  Got you and Rhodey in my corner.  How could it not?”

“Speaking of James, he texted to say, and please know that I’m quoting here, that if you don’t get back down to the car in two minutes, he’d better see your boxers waving from Steve’s window because Happy is singing showtunes, and he’s on to Andrew Lloyd Webber, and I’m supposed to tell you that an encore of Memory is a violation of the Bro Code?” Pepper told him.  She seemed to have entirely too much fun relaying that bit of info, but it brought a smile to Tony’s face. 

“He’s my next phone call,” Tony promised, disconnecting the line.  He stepped inside the dismal apartment, leaving the door cracked behind him and picked his way over to the sofa.  It smelled vaguely like Cheetos and…drain cleaner, Tony thought with a grimace of distaste.  There was a large, white pizza box soaked through with a grease stain taking up one cushion and a couple of t-shirts, something he wasn’t touching with a ten-foot pole, and a Jets jersey tossed over the arm.  He sat down on the, well, not clean space, but…empty spot, anyway, and dialed Rhodey. 

“He’s doing Evita,” Rhodey said by way of greeting.  In the background, Tony could hear Happy’s deep baritone slugging through something about Argentina not crying all over the place. 

“Sorry, Sourpatch,” Tony replied, leaning back against the sofa, hearing a squishing noise, and promptly sitting forward again. 

“So.  You two make up and make out, or what?” Rhodey asked.  “Dude, seriously?  No, I don’t like Phantom better,” Rhodey said in a muffled voice.  “Okay, so what’s the deal?”

Tony sighed.  Good question. 

“Uh, so, I might have done something a little rash,” Tony began.

“You don’t say?  Shocking.  This is my shocked voice,” Rhodey replied in an even tone. 

“Steve needs a bit of time to, you know, adjust to this idea. Me. Us.  Just needs a bit of space to get his head around it.  So.  I’m going to, you know, give him that.  But, from across the hall,” Tony stammered out.  “Wow, that….really sounded better in my head.”

“Let’s hope,” Rhodey said.  “I’m coming up.  Hang on.”  Tony could hear the car door crank open and slam shut through the phone, thankfully drowning out Argentina’s woes.

“Pepper’s on her way, too,” Tony told him.  There was a crinkling noise from the corner of the room.  Tony stood up and twisted in place, searching for a safe spot, and decided to just stand where he was until Rhodey got there and Pepper…did whatever it was Pepper would do to make this okay.

“Good. I called Nat, by the way.  She knew something was up after the little impromptu dinner party the other day.  Said she was this close to coming down to the Tower and finding out what the hell was going on,” Rhodey informed him. 

“I’ll take door number two for who put the kibash on that,” Tony grumbled.

“Yeah, well, I’m not saying that didn’t take some convincing.  He’s coming, at least.  Be nice.  He’s Steve’s me, remember,” Rhodey told him.

“On a scale of one to I should move to Belize, how pissed is he?” Tony asked.  There was that sound again.  God, he was going to have nightmares.  “Did you know that New York City has more rats than people?”

“He’s pretty pissed, that’s an urban legend, and I’m hanging up now,” Rhodey said, and Tony heard the click against his ear, followed a minute or so later by the sound of booted footfalls outside the apartment door.

“Well,” Rhodey began.  He was leaning against the doorframe, just inside the apartment, arms crossed over his chest.  “Guess it really is true love.”

“Yeah, well.  He’s—“ Tony started, tossing up a hand in the general direction of Steve’s apartment.  “I don’t know.  He’s scared.  Thinks I’m just reliving the past.  That we’re different people now.  Which is ridiculous.  It’s ridiculous, right?  It is.  Of course, it is.  Isn’t it? You can chime in anytime, by the way.  Feel free.  Because, I’m this close to having some kind of panic attack that I’m screwing this up big time.  Maybe I read it wrong.  He’s—I mean, should I back off, or…kidnappings still considered bad, right? Sure. Yeah.  Is it kidnapping if the kidnappee ends up in a better place?  Is there like a good kind of false imprisonment?”

“Tony, dial it down.  Look, you’ve loved this guy since you met him,” Rhodey reminded him.  “And he’s crazy about you.  ‘Tony made it.’ _God_ ,” Rhodey reminded him, giving a dramatic shudder.  “Practically little hearts fluttering around his head every time he looks at you, which he does, all the time, by the way.  You’re too busy freaking out to notice.  Anyone else but you, I’d be physically ill.   Sure, you’re different people now.  So, you love each other differently than you did when you were nineteen.  That’s the way it works,” Rhodey said with a firm nod.

“Does it?  Work like that?” Tony asked. 

“It can,” Rhodey replied, the bravado gone from his voice.  “It’s supposed to.”

“Okay.  Okay, well.  Fluttering hearts, huh?” Tony chuckled, gripping a hand to his chest.

“All over the place,” Rhodey assured him. 

“---Right, so we will probably need some new flooring, and lighting.  He needs light for the workstation.  How’s the wi-fi?  Okay, that’s not going to work,” Pepper’s voice rang out in the hallway over the click-clack of her heels across the linoleum floor.  “Who’s your guy at the power company?  We’ll probably need—“ Pepper stopped, the phone still held to her mouth, which was now slightly agog as she took in the apartment.  Her wide eyes darted to Tony, then to Rhodey, who shrugged helpfully.  “How do you feel about tenting a building?  Can you tent a building?  Look, David, I’m going to have to call you back, just get over here as soon as possible.  Bring shovels,” she said, hitting the button to end the call.  “Are you kidding me?  Are you kidding me???”

“I know it looks bad,” Tony said, holding up his hands.  “Mostly, it just needs cleaning.” Something moved again in the corner of the room, making that metallic crinkling sound like it was digging into the bottom of a chip bag.  Good thing he didn’t really need much in the way of sleep.  “And an exterminator.”

“Might not be an urban legend,” Rhodey admitted, giving the corner a concerned look.

“Oh, God,” Pepper moaned, rubbing a hand over her forehead.  “I mean, it was all romantic sounding on the phone, and now it’s just...horrible and depressing and…”  she trailed off, throwing a limp arm in the air as she stutter-stepped into the room.

“A convincing statement of my devotion,” Tony supplied.

“Yes, that.  Is there something alive over there?” Pepper demanded, pointing gingerly and giving the corner of the room a wide berth.

“Rhodey said urban legend, so he’s red-shirt tonight,” Tony said.

“No way. You got yourself into this.  You deal with…whatever that is,” Rhodey replied.

“Don’t you fly jets?  And get shot at?” Tony demanded.

“I don’t like rats, okay? They have those long, naked tail things,” Rhodey said with a shudder.

“Well.  This is…unexpected,” Natasha said evenly from the doorway just behind Rhodes.  “Hey, James.  Pepper. Tony,” she finished lowly.

“Nat,” Rhodey greeted her with a nod.  “Thanks for coming.  You, too,” Rhodey said, giving a look to Barnes, who was hovering behind Natasha, looking like he’d sucked on a dozen lemons on the ride over. 

“I was told I didn’t have a choice,” Barnes said, pushing past Nat and Rhodey to step into the apartment. 

“You…had a choice,” Nat countered.

“I was told I could come over and play nice or ride the couch until I did,” Barnes grumbled. 

“This is for Steve,” Natasha said, sounding like she’d probably repeated that a few times on the way over.

“Steve doesn’t want anything to do with him,” Barnes said, shooting a glare at Tony.  “Isn’t that what he told you?”

“What happened.  Before. It wasn’t—there’s so much—“ Tony implored, sucking in a breath.  “He says that, but.  Look around you.  I’m trying here, Barnes,” Tony husked out, which at least made the man stop looking like he wanted to take his prosthetic arm off and beat Tony with it.  “We screwed up, okay?  And we got screwed. I’m trying to fix this.”

“James filled me in,” Natasha said. She stepped inside, and Rhodey followed, shutting the door and leaving the tiny apartment entirely too crowded.  “You’re both idiots, by the way.  You _and_ Steve.  How  on God’s green earth did this happen?  I mean, I know how, but, Jesus, Tony.  _How_?  You really thought Steve just wanted your money?  _Steve_? And him, thinking you wanted to, what, sow some wild oats or some crap?”

“Look, we were nineteen. We talked about what to eat, what fictional character would win in a fight, and where the hell did we leave the lube last night, not why we were maybe a little insecure in the relationship or what was keeping us up at night,” Tony said tightly, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, so, I get that we need, like, massive amounts of couples’ therapy, but, you know, first, I’d like to convince my better half that we are, in fact, a couple,” Tony protested.  “The cracks were there.  Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, right?  I see it, now.  Howard played us, but we let him in.  I’m not—I’m not proud of it, Nat.  I’m here now. Trying to make it right.”

“Fair enough,” Nat replied with a shrug. 

“That’s it?  You’re just, what, sorry?  For a misunderstanding?  Whoops?” Barnes ground out.  “Sorry I ruined your life and made you feel like shit for ten years?”

“James,” Nat murmured, bringing a hand up to his shoulder, though he jerked away from the touch.

“They fired him.  Because of you.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to get another job when you have a ‘would not rehire’ on you?  They weren’t even going to let him in the Army because of that bullshit restraining order, until 9/11 happened, and they started taking anyone,” Barnes snapped. “He coulda moved up.  Gotten promoted.  Gotten out of there, someone like Steve.  He could’ve gone places.  Before any of this shit,” he continued, banging his good hand on his prosthetic arm, “Happened to him.”

“I—I know,” Tony said.  He didn’t know, not really, but he knew enough.  “I never…you have to believe that I never knew about any of that.  That wasn’t me.  I’d never—God, Steve?  You really think I’d hurt him like that?  That I wanted any of this for him?  I—I loved him.  Love him.  More than anything.  I’d never, not for anything in the world, see him hurt. It kills me, if I think about it, I—I can’t think about it, you know?  I can’t.  I’ll lose the plot, James.  I will. I—I just want to make it right.  Okay?  That’s it.”

“That’s not all, and you know it, so don’t even with that bullshit,” Barnes bit out.  “Let me guess, he doesn’t fall into your arms at this revelation,” Barnes said derisively, making quote marks in the air around the word. “So you, what, move in next to him? Who does that?”

“Hey, your guy thought Tony was just looking to slum it for a bit,” Rhodey countered.  “Tony.  Who loves Steve more than Kanye loves Kanye.”

“Because he said that!” Barnes shouted, pointing a finger at Tony.

“Oh, come on, Tony says stupid shit when he’s drunk, don’t give me that. Even Steve knew enough to go try to figure out what was going on, and yeah, the whole restraining order thing is a bitch, I’ll grant you.  Look, can we just blame Howard, or you want to rock-paper-scissors for who has the biggest idiot?” Rhodey asked. 

“Two out of three?” Barnes replied after a long pause. 

“Bring it,” Rhodey said.

“Oh, stop it, you two, good Lord,” Pepper protested.  “Can we focus on the problem?”

“He went to Germany, you know?  After Steve was hurt.  He sat in his car in the parking lot of the hospital while Steve was in surgery.  He thinks I didn’t know about it, but I just could never bring myself to give him grief over it,” Rhodey said to Barnes, whose mouth flattened into a thin line, but he looked away and huffed out a shaky breath.

“Yeah, well, Steve spent like fourteen hours on 9/11 getting downtown because there was some news report that Tony might’ve been at one of the Towers.  He didn’t even make it all the way, everything was blocked off.  He probably would’ve just kept on going, but you showed up on TV, talking about what your company was doing to help with relief.  So, he just turns around and walks back.  I don’t know what he was going to do if you’d been there.  I don’t think he knew.  Everything was crazy that day, but all he could think about was you,” Barnes said into the quiet. 

“Right,” Rhodey said after a pregnant silence where everyone just sort of stood there, looking at anything that wasn’t Tony, except for Barnes, who was watching him like a hawk.    Tony returned the gaze without flinching, until Barnes finally looked over at Natasha with a flat grimace.  “So.  The problem.  Which is, your guy, who, by the way, is still ridiculously in love with my guy, thinks my guy is not here for the long haul, which is crazy, because my guy is insane enough to buy a building so he can be near your guy,” Rhodey explained.  “Which, I realize, as I say it out loud, is probably not helping my case.  Point being, your guy loves my guy.  My guy loves your guy.  You Team Happily Ever After or what?”

Everyone sort of went still and quiet, holding their breath while they looked at Barnes, who was alternately glaring at Rhodey and Tony and giving Nat a narrow, side-eyed look. 

“Please.  James, please.  I’m asking.  For me, yeah, but for him, too.  If you think I’m wrong about how he feels, then walk out.  But, if you think we have a chance—I’m asking,” Tony pleaded.

“Yeah, fine, I’m in,” Barnes said after a beat, giving Tony a hard look.  “Don’t screw this up.”

“Great. What’d you got?” Rhodey asked. 

“Jesus.  I can’t believe—fine, fine,” Barnes amended when Nat nudged his shoulder.  “He’s gonna kill me.  Okay.  So, he likes how smart you are.  You sometimes used to try to keep a lid on it, like you figured maybe he’d feel bad or somethin’ ‘cause you’re you or whatever.  But, see, Steve, he likes that you’re crazy-smart.  Thinks all the stuff you can do is just, I don’t know, amazing or whatever.  God, I had to listen to him read that stupid paper of yours over and over.  Doesn’t know what ninety percent of it says, but you wrote it, so,” Barnes finished with a shrug.  “Your turn,” he said pointedly to Rhodey.

“Tony likes it when Steve does all that romantic bullshit.  Loves it.  Completely falls for it.  The cheesier, the better,” Rhodey said.

“That’s not---I mean, not really, I just—“ Tony stammered out an objection.

“The little notes.  Those drawings he used to do?  Tony kept all that crap. All of it.  Like, I’m talking grocey lists because there’s some doodle or an ‘I love you’ on them.  They’re in a box in a drawer we don’t discuss,” Rhodey announced. 

“A drawer?  Pbbzzt,” Barnes said, making a noise.  “You ever walk to your fridge in the middle of the night to get a drink of water and have the crap scared out of you by a giant teddy bear sitting on your sofa with your mopey best friend?  Because, let me tell you, that’s not the kind of noise you want your girl to hear you making.”

“You were very brave.  Throwing the lamp was completely not an overreaction,” Nat intoned mildly, a smile playing on her lips as she twined her arm through Barnes’ and leaned in close.

“In my defense, it was dark and that thing was creepy as hell,” Barnes recalled.

“Hey, now.  Ursa Major was not creepy,” Tony objected. “She had a bow.  With…little x’s and o’s on it.”

“Oh, God, you named it?” Rhodey groaned.  “You two were so pathetic.”

“So, we’re just not going to talk about how you made a CD of Songs in the Key of Carol?” Tony asked.

“You swore, man,” Rhodey said, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Don’t start on the bear,” Tony protested.  “Did you really clock it with a lamp?” Tony asked, turning towards Barnes.

“Nah, Steve caught the lamp.  He crashed on our sofa for a few months after everything went to pot with that…thing…that he wouldn’t rid of until it was time to head to Basic, and he couldn’t afford to store it.  I think he cried,” Barnes muttered.  Tony glanced at Rhodey, who tilted his head side to side and widened his eyes encouragingly. 

“Hard to top the image of Steve sleeping on Barnes’ couch with a giant bear, sorry Tones, gotta give Barnes that one,” Rhodey acknowledged.  “Okay, so both the idiots are giant, sentimental saps.”

“Yeah, yeah.  I can work with the whole romance angle with Steve,” Barnes said, rubbing at his jaw with his good hand.  “What else?  Let’s see.  Oh, you gotta make a big deal about the damn vases.  He’s not going to say it, he’s gonna pretend he doesn’t care, but he likes it when you get all weird about his art.  He can’t draw so good now—fine motor skills are shit with his hand--but he’s doing this program for veterans that Sam got him into.  Glass-blowing.  Helps with his hand, something about the movements and coordination, and, I don’t know, supposed to be this transformative thing.  The glass. Help veterans process trauma or some shit.  He’s terrible at it, but he tries.  So, notice the vases.  Do not make fun of the vases.  By, like, calling them bowls.”

“One time,” Nat cut in.  “And how was that not bowl-like?”

“Vases.  Not bowls. Got it,” Tony chimed in eagerly.

“Go gaga over the vases. Tony can do that,” Rhodey agreed with a nod.  “What else?”

“Steve can’t resist playing hero to ties-himself-to-the-train-tracks-here, so if you’re in trouble or need something, he’s not going to say no,” Barnes offered. “Likes to take care of you.  See you happy.  We spent like three hours at Bed, Bath and Beyond trying to find just the right coffee pot.  Who knew they made so many damn styles?  Would Tony like the one that makes cappuccino, you think?  Or the one that has its own bean grinder?  God.  I still go to sleep by reeling off the features of different brands in my head.”

“Which works out, because Tony loves it when Steve’s all protective and doting.  Eats it up.  Probably because no one really had his back when he was a kid, so he associates someone taking care of him with showing their love, and all that demonstrative crap makes him feel more comfortable in the relationship,” Rhodey said.

“Hey, I’m standing right here,” Tony said with an exasperated tone.

“Dude, you know it’s true,” Rhodey said bluntly with a raised eyebrow.

“I do not tie myself to the—okay, that is an outdated reference, first of all, and second of all, completely inaccurate,” Tony said. 

“Rhodey has a point,” Pepper added.  “You do get yourself into some situations, Tony.”

“Casting aspersions.  Aspersions being cast. Right here,” Tony muttered.

“You’re standing in a dilapidated building you’re about to own, in the closet-sized apartment equivalent of Three Mile Island and a rat that is likely drunk and/or high based upon the foraging available in this place is probably going to chew your toe off tonight, all to win back the man you’re still technically maybe married to,” Pepper reeled off.

“Well, when you say it like that,” Tony groused.  “Can we get back to the, you know, Steve issue and leave my chew toy appendages out of it?”

“Don’t make a big deal about the hand thing.  Or the back.  He’s real sensitive about his limitations, you know?” Barnes said.

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Tony replied.

“All that stuff when he was a kid, and he couldn’t do shit, then he grows out of most of it.  Now, he’s back where he started, see?  Body that won’t work right. Won’t let him do what he wants.  Gets in his head, sometimes,” Barnes continued, tone going almost pleading.  “So, don’t coddle him about it. But, you gotta kinda figure out where it’s an issue for him and work around it.  Repetitive motion’s bad for the nerves and tendons, so don’t ask him to do more than he has to, because the stubborn ass won’t say no.  Back goes wonky sometimes, like for no reason.  I don’t know.  He doesn’t know.  Just happens.  He’s had three surgeries on it, and each time, they say he’s gonna be fine, but then the VA, they only pay for so much physical therapy, and meanwhile, he’s got to go back to work, so.  But, God forbid you suggest he slow it down a little, you know? That’s not Steve, so don’t even bother.  Just gets all full a’piss about it, trust me.”

“Okay, I can do that.  Back. Hand.  Don’t coddle, but don’t ask him to do too much.  Got it,” Tony replied.  “Anything else?”

“You could walk around naked some.  He likes that,” Barnes said with a shrug and a half-formed shit-eating grin, which quickly fell off his face when Nat elbowed him.  “What? He does.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tony replied, shooting Barnes an annoyed look.  

“Make him laugh.  He doesn’t do that so much anymore.  Not since you, really.  I thought it was the war, but…Make him feel like he’s part of something important.  He needs that.  Let him help you.  Talk to him, not to…not to convince him.  Just to talk to him,” Barnes said quietly, biting his lip.  “Me off with Nat.  He doesn’t have anyone.  Not like he used to, when it was the two of us.  Not like over there, where we had our guys, you know?  Then you get back here, and it’s all doctors and therapists, and they all just talk at you, not to you, like you’re this problem to be fixed so they can move on to the next one.  Talk to him about, you know, stuff that…makes him happy.” 

“He’s not being exactly forthcoming in the talking department,” Tony muttered with a sigh. 

“Try doing it naked,” Barnes suggested.  “Seriously, you all look at me like that all you want, but I’m telling you, we lock these two naked in a closet and this’d be over in like ten—“

“Hey!” Tony protested.

“Fine, fifteen minutes,” Barnes finished, goggling his eyes at Tony.

“Oh, fuck off, Barnes,” Tony muttered.

“My husband, everyone. The romantic,” Natasha said with a sardonic raise of a single, perfect eyebrow.

“You’re not sayin’ I’m wrong, though,” Barnes pointed out in a satisfied tone.

“Okay, Tony, the workers should be here any minute.  At least we can get this place livable tonight.  Maybe,” she amended, giving a quick look to the corner from where the rustling noise occasionally emanated.

“So, you’ll talk to him?” Tony asked Barnes. 

“Yeah, I’ll talk to him.  You’re going to have to do the heavy-lifting, though,” Barnes told him.  Tony grimaced.  “Hey, look.  He’s had ten years to get used to the idea that you never loved him, and less than a day to think maybe you do.  Give it time.”

“He asked if I’d be here in the morning,” Tony said, shifting around a bit where he stood and looking down at his mud-covered shoes again before looking back up at the group.

“Well, then.  Guess you’d better be here in the morning,” Barnes replied evenly, giving Tony a long, vaguely threatening look.

“I'm not going anywhere," Tony promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful support on this story! Sorry for the wait on this chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it, though it is a bit of a transition chapter. For anyone who didn't figure it out, the "big gun" is Bucky, because I figure, he knows Steve best, and Tony needs him on his side to make this happen, though I loved all the creative ideas that were thrown out for who it could be! You are all far more inventive than I am. 
> 
> Comments and kudos will be kept in secret drawers to look at when I'm feeling down. Thank you all!
> 
> If you want to come say hi, I'm sabrecmc on tumblr.


	9. Fanart by Superfizz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful superfizz did this cover art for the fic. Check them out on tumblr at superfizz.tumblr.com

[](https://www.cweb-pix.com/image/LHGJ)


	10. Fanart by kayvsworld

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fanart of their first meeting was done by the incredible Kay. Check out their stuff on kayvsworld.tumblr.com

[](https://www.cweb-pix.com/image/LHGU)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay between chapters! Vacation and real life this summer has been kicking my ass, but I will finish this, I promise! This chapter was a lot of fun to write. I love their banter. It is almost entirely talking, which is actually really tough to write that much dialogue. Hope you enjoy, and get a better idea where they are coming from.

“Good morning, beloved,” Tony said around a yawn.  He lifted his mug of coffee in salute when Steve stepped out of his apartment wearing his janitor’s uniform under a bulky brown jacket, his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

Tony winced at the sharp click-thunk of a nail-gun sounding in rapid succession behind the carefully crafted position of nonchalance he’d adopted, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, legs crossed at the ankles.  Between his architect, the Tower’s general contractor and the small army Pepper managed to pull together to put in an all-nighter on this week’s episode of Pimp My Shithole Apartment, he had a legitimate excuse for not sleeping that did not involve nerves, caffeine and pining after Steve, no matter what Rhodey said on the subject. 

“You’re really doing this,” Steve said with a slight shake of his head.  He gave Tony a quick, studied look, then dropped his gaze and stuck the key into the doorknob, this time without a problem, Tony noticed. 

“Told you I’d be here,” Tony replied.  “Here.  Got you breakfast,” Tony said, reaching inside the door to the small console table where a white paper bag waited.  He curled a hand over the top and dangled it out in front of him.  “For the road.  Let’s go.”

“What?” Steve balked, looking between the bag and Tony in bewildered confusion.

“You have work.  I have breakfast.  Match made in heaven. Let’s go,” Tony pointed out as another loud rapport echoed behind him.  “Hey, Frank Lloyd?  Wanna put that on hold for a second?” Tony called out over his shoulder.  “Sorry.  Long night.  So, yeah, Yoo-hoo.”

“Excuse me?” Steve asked with a frown. 

“You still drink that elixir of sweet death, right?  So, Yoo-hoo, bagel—plain, no seeds, I know—cream cheese _and_ jelly, because you’re a heathen.  Coffee for me,” Tony ticked off his list.  “Come on. Don’t want to be late.  Chop-chop.  Daylight’s a’wasting.  Or still coming. Whatever. God, what time is it?”

“’Bout six,” a voice called out from the apartment behind him. 

“Discount Ty Pennington there says it’s too early to argue,” Tony snorted, sparing a glance over his shoulder at the tiny apartment still abuzz with workmen putting the final touches on upgrading it from should be condemned to somewhat livable.

“You’re not serious,” Steve protested, with a tone that was already half acceptance.  “You are serious,” Steve corrected at Tony’s look.

“Got one of those bus pass things,” Tony told him, taking a sip of coffee from the Stark Industries travel mug.  “Well, technically, Pepper got it for me,” Tony finished with a nod of his head. “Here,” Tony repeated, shaking the crinkled white bag in Steve’s direction.  “Come on, take it.  You know you want it.  All full of carbs and empty calories.  Just how you like it.”

Steve’s hands went to his hips, and he turned away for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek, before looking back at Tony with what was probably exasperation, but he walked over and took the bag from Tony’s hand and peeked inside, so Tony counted it as a win.  He resisted the urge to victory dance over a bagel, but couldn’t entirely suppress a smile as Steve gave the bagel and truly horrifying chocolate drink a stern look.

“Bucky said I married the one person on the planet who was more stubborn than me,” Steve told the bagel before raising his eyes back to Tony. 

“He’s not wrong,” Tony admitted, pushing himself off the doorframe and grabbing his coat from the hook by the door. 

“He meant it as a character flaw, not a compliment,” Steve retorted.

“Still not wrong, though.  After you,” Tony said, with a sweep of his hand and tilt of his head.

“Thought maybe you’d come to your senses during the night,” Steve said as he took the steps. 

“I did.  Epiphanies all over the place.  Want to hear them?” Tony asked, following a half-step behind.  “Sure you do.  On pins and needles, I can tell.  No, wait, don’t push.  Let me get this out in my own time,” Tony teased, holding up a hand at Steve’s silence, which was currently speaking volumes. “Basically, I’m going to woo you.  See, this is—for me, this is a done deal, right?  You, me.  Whole shebang.  I’m one-hundred percent onboard.  Maybe, I panicked a little last night.  With the whole Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood takeover thing.  I get that.  You were leaving me.  Again, and I—so.  Yeah.”

“Please tell me you didn’t really buy this building,” Steve said with an air of resigned bemusement.  

“It’s a fixer-upper, I’ll grant you,” Tony agreed, looking around at the peeling paint.  Probably lead-based.  Over asbestos.  “But, anyway, I get it.  For me, problem solved.  You didn’t take the money.  You love me.  Really, actually love me.  You do. Even Barnes came this close,” Tony continued, holding out his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.  “To admitting that.  Much as it might have pained him.  But, for you…I—I do hear what you’re saying.  I’m not…I’m not ignoring you.  Or—or downplaying what you’re saying.  Jesus, would you--I could really validate your feelings a lot better if you’d slow down a second and look at me,” Tony huffed out.

“That what this is now?  Validating my feelings?  Should I get my dream journal and some tea?” Steve scoffed bitterly, definitely not slowing down. 

“Couldn’t hurt,” Tony countered. “Look, you think we’re so different now, so different we can’t possibly be compatible with each other, right?  Why? Because you have issues?  Because, hi, pot, I’m kettle.  Do you remember what I wreck I was when we first met?  I threw up half a liquor cabinet all over your shoes, after spending an evening blowing through both a guy a hated, a couple of grand and half a gram of coke.  But, you didn’t see a list of problems.  You saw me.  _Me_ , Steve.  You saw me, and that—that was all you cared about.  So, you really think your issues are going to send me running for the hills?”

“It isn’t—it’s not just about that, Tony,” Steve replied, though the words were stiff and halting, because Steve was a terrible liar. 

“Is it the money?  Because, so help me God, I will donate it all so Sally Struthers doesn’t eat those poor African kids if it will make you feel better,” Tony offered. 

“Tony!” Steve barked back a laugh. 

“Was that ‘Tony!’ for the orphan cannibalism joke or the money thing?  What? Don’t give me that look. I’m just trying to work on our communication skills, Steven,” Tony replied evenly, giving Steve a wide-eyed, innocent look.

“You’re not going to donate all your money.  Or, fine, do it, it’s your money, but not—not because of me—this,” Steve objected.   

“Can’t think of a better reason.  Well, technically, the starving children, but you get my point,” Tony said with a nod.

“Thought you were going to solve world hunger with your energy thing,” Steve reminded him.

“Ah-ha!  You listened!” Tony burst out, wagging a teasingly accusatory finger in Steve’s direction.  “You like me. You really like me,” Tony half-sung in a high-pitched voice, pointing a finger at Steve as they took the last set of stairs.

“’Course I like you, Tony.  Everyone likes you,” Steve replied.

“First of all, you’re blindingly wrong, but don’t change.  Second of all, don’t go on the internet. Ever,” Tony urged.   

“They just say that stuff about you because they don’t really know you,” Steve said with such easy assurance it almost made it believable. 

“Okay, see, you can’t just say stuff like that, and not expect me to stalk you through poor real estate investments,” Tony threw back, then sucked in a bracing breath.  “Some of it.  Some of it’s true, you know.  Ah.  What they say.  Some of it, anyway.  I’m—I’m not proud of it.  It was a long time ago, but, I mean…I didn’t handle our break-up in the healthiest way possible.  Is that part of, ah.  Is that what’s…I know you said we were different people now, and that’s—I mean, that’s true, and I know there’s a lot in there that I’d like to take back, but…it wasn’t like I knew.  If I’d known, I’d never have.  Done.  That stuff.  I can’t—I can’t take it back, so.  It is what it is.  Just.  If that’s what’s bothering you, or part of it, or, I don’t know, I could tell you it didn’t mean anything.  It didn’t.  God, I’d have Pepper get them out of there before I had to learn names, which, yeah, not my finest--” 

“Tony,” Steve cut in, coming to an abrupt halt on the stairs.  He reached out a hand and gripped Tony’s arm to steady him or maybe just to make the word vomit stop, who knew?  “You really think I’m going to judge you for who you slept with while you thought we were divorced?  I never wanted you to be alone.”

“Well, I mean, I’d be okay with a little non-judgmental jealousy, if you wanted to pick a door, just saying,” Tony suggested with a surge of shaky relief.  “I was alone,” Tony said, then let out a bitter husk of a laugh.  “I was the most popular table of one, don’t get me wrong,” he continued with a shake of his head. “Always had people around.  Of course, I had Rhodey and then, Pepper.  Happy, too.  But, it wasn’t the same as having you. I think you might know what I mean.  I read your letters to me.  Some of them, anyway.  You had Barnes and Nat. Thor.  The people in your unit.  All these people, and you wrote to me, even though you thought I’d never read them.”

“I stopped that a long time ago, Tony,” Steve replied with a heavy sigh, slowly turning to look Tony in the eye with a tight, pained expression that was trying way too hard for sincere.

“Did you?” Tony pressed, returning Steve’s look with a steady, unflinching gaze.  It was Steve who looked away first, starting down the stairs and leaving Tony staring at his back. 

“I heard about your little meeting last night,” Steve called out as his boots hit the last few steps.  They were almost to the vestibule, where faint morning light spilled in from the windows above the doors, illuminating the floating specks of mesothelioma-waiting-to-happen that drifted lazily in the air.  Lovely.

“Team Happily Ever After. That’s what we call ourselves,” Tony replied, too quickly, voice dropping off at the end, because he liked the sound of it, but knew it wasn’t right the moment he said it out loud. “I know.  Sorry.  Probably shouldn’t—you know, with the whole not pushing you, wooing you thing and all—that’s probably not a—I mean, it wasn’t a thing, really…not, like, official or….” he trailed off.

“Bucky said you came to Germany,” Steve said after a pause.  He’d stopped, one hand on the door handle.  His bad hand, Tony noticed, tightening, then releasing, like Steve couldn’t decide whether to hang on or let go.  His eyes were fixed forward, locked on the doors, a muscle twitching in his cheek.  Here there be dragons, Tony thought to himself.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I did,” Tony replied quietly, coming to a halt beside where Steve stood rigid.  “Sat in a car in the hospital parking lot, getting updates from some General who likes to take the yacht out when he’s stateside.  I—I should’ve come inside.  It was a chicken-shit thing to do, sitting out there like that,” Tony rushed out, watching Steve’s face for any guidepost of where he should take this conversation.  Off-ramp, please, Tony thought to himself.  “I don’t know—I heard about your—the accident, and I just got on the plane.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I just…I had to be there.”

After what seemed like an eternity, Steve gave a slight, jerky nod and pulled open the door.

“I’m glad you didn’t. Come see me, I mean.  I wasn’t—it wasn’t a good time,” Steve said finally as he pushed open the apartment building’s door, which gave a creaking groan of protest as he did.  He held it open for Tony, though, which, when you were grasping for straws, was a straw.  Maybe not having the door slammed in your face was more like one of those tiny, stirrer-sticks people used as straws, but a straw, nonetheless.

“I should’ve been there,” Tony replied stubbornly.  “I could’ve helped. Or.  I don’t know, but I should’ve been there.  With you.  Not a good time?  That’s when I should’ve been there the most.  You—Barnes said you came looking for me on 9/11.”

“Jesus, did you two stay up braiding each other’s hair?” Steve demanded with a flash of annoyance before stomping down the building’s front steps and heading off towards the bus stop. 

“He was, well, Rhodey and him, really, they were both sort of having a go at each other, but, you know, I—I thought it was nice. That you did that,” Tony stammered, hurrying to catch up to where Steve waited by the pole with a partially smashed plastic box displaying the bus routes. 

Tony shot a forlorn look towards where Happy sat in the warm Bentley, then tugged black leather gloves out of his coat pocket.  He slipped them over his hands and brought them up to his mouth to warm them with quick puffs of breath.  God, it was cold out here.  Stupid nature.

“Isn’t that your car?” Steve asked, brows drawn together and head titled to the side. 

“Yes,” Tony replied with an air of sadness.  “All nice and toasty warm.  But, let’s put that aside for now. Real excited to try out this bus pass thing,” Tony said, pulling the bright yellow card out of the breast pocket of his coat.

“Yeah, you sound it,” Steve said with a roll of his eyes.  It wasn’t an objection, so that was something, Tony told himself. 

“I know you’re humoring me,” Tony told him.  “Or, you’re telling yourself that’s what you’re doing, anyway.  Humor me for a few days, and this will all go away.  I’ll come to my senses or whatever.  Jaunt back to my merry life at the Tower.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at him, then grimaced and looked away. 

“Yeah, no.  Not happening.  You don’t believe me right now, and that’s fine.  I’m a very patient man,” Tony continued.  Steve huffed out a rough snort and shot Tony a sharp-eyed look.  “I can be a very patient man.  When the right incentive is presented.  Remember that epic game of Risk we played for like four days straight when the whole city got shut down for that snow storm?”

“You turned it into strip-Risk, and I surrendered,” Steve recalled, biting at his lip to keep from smiling.

“Win’s, a win,” Tony argued.  “But see, patience.  Though, God, that makes me think I might actually have to take Barnes’ advice on something,” Tony muttered. 

“What?” Steve asked, giving Tony a confused look.

“Nevermind.  Point being, I’m fine with waiting.  Courting.  Like you used to do with me, all jacket-over-the-puddle style,” Tony replied.  “Bus pass time!” Tony said with exaggerated exhuberance as he nodded down the street, where a flat-fronted white and blue bus was maneuvering through traffic. 

When it stopped, Tony followed Steve aboard and swiped his card like a pro.  He grinned at the driver, who was chatting on a Bluetooth and ignored him.  He gave her a shrug and took a seat in between Steve and a woman with rows of dreadlocks dyed bright fuchsia, what purported to be a Chinese symbol tattooed on her neck and a Twilight book in her hand, like a series of bad life choices writ large.

“Eat your bagel,” Tony admonished, nudging Steve’s arm that was clutching the paper bag. 

“You’re not supposed to have food or drink on the bus,” Steve pointed out, nodding to the sign above the driver, which also warned against smoking and boom boxes.  Dear Lord, he’d time-traveled, Tony marveled.  Where was the flux capacitor in this thing?

Tony looked up and down the rows of passengers, who looked like walking ads for Starbucks, then back at Steve. 

“The whole not wanting to be married to me thing, fine.  Now, you’re just being stubborn for the sake of it,” Tony accused lightly.  “Eat your bagel.” Steve sighed, but took out the bagel and plastic knife, then started spreading the cream cheese on top of half of it.  Tony made a face when Steve squeezed the small pack of jelly on top, and made a harrumphing noise. 

“Make the face all you want, it’s good this way,” Steve said without sparing Tony a glance, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he chewed.  “You should eat something, too.  You didn’t have enough breakfast.”

“I ate before we left,” Tony replied.

“Coffee isn’t a food,” Steve protested.

“It—“ Tony started.

“I don’t care that it comes from beans,” Steve cut him off.

“Well, it does,” Tony argued.  “I’ll eat after I drop you off.  Which—how long of a ride is this, anyway?”

“Takes about an hour or so, depending on traffic.  I’ve got to change buses in about twenty blocks,” Steve answered.  “So, ah, not that I don’t appreciate the breakfast and…company.  But, don’t you have, I don’t know, a multi-national, billon-dollar business to run?  And saving the world with your energy thing?”

“You’d be surprised how much I can get done between midnight and four a.m. when there are six people gutting my new apartment,” Tony said thinly, then wiped a hand over his mouth.  “Actually, the energy thing, as you put it, is done.  Well, the preliminary stage, anyway.  Now, it’s about getting the Board’s approval, and they see a big, money-draining vanity project, when they want to see more shiny new toys for your former employer to buy.”

“It’s your company.  Has your name on it and everything,” Steve pointed out.  “You should tell them what you told me about it.  They can’t say no to doing that much good.”

“You’d be surprised,” Tony muttered through his teeth.  “To tell you the truth, I think a couple of them are willing to be convinced, but getting a consensus on something this far outside what’s been the company’s bread and butter for decades is a bit of an uphill battle.  They’re beholden to the shareholders, and Obie…he’s nervous about what it would do to the stock, which, yeah, I get, but there’s always a transition period when everyone panics.  You don’t see IBM making typewriters anymore, though.”

“But, it isn’t really different than any other tool SI’s been providing the military for all those years, is it? I mean, look at all the resources that we’ve put into recapturing the Mosul Dam and getting it remotely structurally sound.  When the rebels had it, they used rolling blackouts of up to twenty hours a day to try to shunt enough electricity off to refill the reservoir.  Do you have any idea how many problems that caused?” Steve asked.  “Putting aside all the actual conflicts over access to water and resources that you could mitigate, imagine how much that lack of infrastructure sets back the region?  Sets up a world ripe for conflict?” Steve pressed, shifting in his seat to face Tony.  “Look, do you have any idea how dangerous it is getting those convoys of fuel into Afghanistan?  Forget the cost savings over the long haul, good men are dying, and SI is still building typewriters.  The military needs this kind of shiny new toy more than it needs another missile.  We’re doing pretty good blowing things up, trust me.”

“Exactly!  That’s exactly what I’ve been trying…” Tony blinked at him, momentarily stunned.  “Can you come talk to the Board?” he asked with a low, throaty laugh that was part amazement, part nervous excitement.  God, he’d forgotten what it was like to throw a problem Steve’s way and have it batted back to him.  Exhilaratingly right. We should’ve been doing this for the last decade, building SI into what it could be, building each other into what we could be, he thought with a stab of frustration that tore through his stomach and wound its way beneath his ribs. He wasn’t going to lose this.  Not again.

“You want someone from the Corps,” Steve was saying.  “I’ll bet Rhodes can pull someone in for you.  The IRRF is doing most of the funding, but the Corps took over private contract management awhile back,” Steve reminded him. 

“Yeah, that’s…that’s a good idea. That’s…thanks,” Tony said, with a quick smile.  “You’re pretty amazing, you know that?”

“Have some bagel.  No jelly,” Steve replied, handing Tony the half with just cream cheese on it.  He chewed and sipped his coffee for a few blocks, then raised a hand to wave at the man across the bus from them who was staring at him in confusion.  

“Anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like Tony Stark?” the man asked.

“No.  Never heard that,” Tony replied.

“Yeah, guess not…Stark’s a lot taller, right?” the man said, going back to his phone.  Steve snorted next to him and bumped his shoulder.

“I really hate the bus,” Tony said.

“This is my stop,” Steve said a few blocks later, shoving the remaining bits of bagel into the bag and standing up to grab for one of the silver, metal poles with his good hand.  Tony scrambled to stand up next to him and waited for the bus to halt and the doors to slide open. 

“So, that was fun.  Who knew solving my company’s existential crisis just required mutilating a perfectly good bagel?” Tony huffed out as they exited.

“Doesn’t seem quite solved, but if your Board is looking for cover to move away from their entrenchment, then you can give them that,” Steve suggested.  “A voice of dissent is good.  You need that. We all do. But, if it’s one person who can’t move away from how you’ve always done things, then they’re looking after a way of life that’s already over, not protecting the company.  You’re talking about an uphill battle, but you’ve already innovated your own high ground, you’re just too busy defending it to notice.  Napoleon attacked from the high ground, you know.  And lots of people like jelly on their bagels, Tony.  It’s a thing.”

“God, I love it when you talk strategy,” Tony grinned.  “I probably still owe that campus bagel place a hundred bucks or so on your jelly packets.”

“Technically, those were included with your purchase.  Probably not twenty at a time, but there wasn’t a rule against it,” Steve reminded him.

“You and your technicalities,” Tony replied with a wide smile.  “Drink your Yoo-hoo.”

“I’m saving it for lunch,” Steve said. 

“Good.  Space out your sugar coma.  Nice plan, Sun Tzu,” Tony said with a faux-approving nod. He rocked back and forth on his heels, shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down the street, waiting for the next bus to appear.  “So, this place you work…pharmaceutical company, right?  You like it?  Good people and all that?”

“I guess,” Steve said with a shrug.  “It’s okay.  They’re pretty good about hiring veterans.  Sam found it for me.” 

“What do you, ah, you know, do there?” Tony tried.  God, it was like pulling teeth sometimes. 

“Mostly, I assist the CEO with strategic planning decisions,” Steve deadpanned, giving Tony a raised eyebrow.  “It’s fine, Tony.  I do what I do, and they pay fair.”

“Good, good,” Tony said to the wind.   This was so pathetically awkward.  He was trying to be normal about this and not scream at anyone who would listen that Steve—God, _Steve_ , his Steve--didn’t belong mopping floors and scrubbing toilets.  “And you do the, ah, the glass making thing, too, right?  Sam, the guy from the VA?  He got you into that, too.  How nice of Sam. Sam, the somewhat attractive guy with shared life experiences who hangs out at your apartment.”

“Sam’s a good guy,” Steve replied evenly.  “How’s that non-judgmental jealousy thing working out for you?”

“Shut-up,” Tony ground out, shooting Steve an accusatory look.  “You’re messing with me.  I’m standing in—God, where the hell are we?  Is this Jersey?  Fuck.  Waiting on a bus, for which I have a pass.  A bus pass, Steven.  Jesus. I’m going to have the damn thing laminated and preserved, I swear.  I’m standing here, having a vulnerable moment, and you’re messing with me.”

“Maybe a little. Sorry,” Steve replied, not sounding the least like he was sorry.  “You could just take your car,” Steve pointed out, waving a hand at Happy, who was leaning over the steering wheel, idling the car a few hundred feet away. 

“ _You_ could just take my car with me,” Tony threw back.  “Still think I’m just going to snap out of this or whatever’s going on up in that head of yours?”

Steve shrugged, hefting his backpack higher on his shoulder where it had slipped.  “Basically,” he admitted, looking down the street for the bus or for Happy or simply away from Tony. 

“I should’ve knocked you over the head with a Toblerone and dragged your ass home from Germany,” Tony muttered.  Steve gave him a comically startled look, then burst out laughing.  It was, Tony realized, the first time he’d heard Steve laugh, really laugh, in ten years. For just a moment, he let it wash over him, the unbridled joy, the unselfconscious way Steve laughed with his whole body, like it was something that almost couldn’t be contained.

“You’re insane,” Steve observed when he was finally able to get his breath.  He ended up half-coughing, half-laughing through the words, some leftover vestige of childhood asthma that made Tony want to pat him on the back until his body could settle on what it wanted to do with the air, but his voice was laced with disbelief that bordered too closely with delight for Tony to let it go. 

“Love makes you crazy,” Tony replied, meaning it to sound flippant and teasing, but he didn’t stick the landing.  “I know you can’t just flip a switch and have everything be okay with us again.  And I realize I didn’t help myself the other day at the Tower.  That was…not my finest moment, let’s just say.  I know, I shouldn’t have—I mean, obviously, I shouldn’t have.  Full stop.  But, even then, even with thinking what I did, I still wanted to be with you.  Can you—can that count for something?”

“Bus is coming,” Steve said quietly after a beat, looking down where he was scuffing his boot through the leftover slush that lined the sidewalk.  Steve looked up and squinted at the morning sun peeking through the skyscrapers in the distance, then over at Tony.  “I know you care, Tony.  It isn’t in you not to.  You care too much sometimes.  All this…”

“It’s not guilt,” Tony cut in too quickly.  “Okay, fine. The building thing’s maybe a little guilt.  And panic. Don’t forget the panic.  Eighty percent wanting to be near you and show you I care and am in this for the long-haul.  Twenty, guilt and panic,” Tony acknowledged, bobbing his head back and forth.  Steve gave him a measuring look as the bus pulled alongside the curb.  “Fine.  Seventy/thirty,” Tony mumbled and followed Steve onto the bus.  “Still mostly love, though.  You can’t argue with math.”

“I don’t think that means what you think it means,” Steve replied, taking one of the bench seats and maneuvering his backpack to his lap so Tony could take the seat next to him.  He pulled the Yoo-hoo out of the bag, unzipped his backpack, and took out a blue lunchbox with S. Rogers written across the top in black sharpie.  It was so wonderfully Steve, that Tony wanted to grab it and clutch it to his chest.  If he opened it up, it would have all of Steve’s lunch items carefully separated into baggies or containers, all probably labeled with S. Rogers. 

Great.  I’m jealous of a Ziploc, Tony snorted.

“Did you know that Edison had his own glassblowing shed to make light bulbs?” Tony asked.  “And Galileo had to have the glass coils for his thermometer specially crafted.  True story.”

“I’d forgotten that talking with you was a bit like a study in whiplash,” Steve said with a frown.  “When did you become an expert in glassblowing?”

“Around 2 a.m. last night,” Tony answered, stifling a yawn at the thought.

“Galileo and Edison, huh? That’s a bit different from what I do down at the studio,” Steve told him. 

“What was the first thing you made?” Tony asked.

“Ah…let’s call it a glass paperweight,” Steve laughed, solid and genuine.  “They start you with just getting a feel for the way the heat works on the glass, how to move the blower, that kind of thing.  So, it kind of turned out to be a glob.  Bucky has it on his desk.  Calls it a high-class pet rock.  Nat kept moving it around the apartment and leaving it in random places, driving Buck crazy, so he got it mounted on this pedestal thing.  Then, she put some of those googly eyes and a little bow on it and had the pedestal engraved with Pretty Pretty Princess Award, and now he blames me.”

“Seems logical.  Undermining his fragile masculinity with your glass glob and all that,” Tony agreed.  “Why does that sound dirty?”

“Anyway, we’re supposed to use the pieces to express ourselves, though so far, my feelings tend toward shouting ‘It’s Not a Bowl,’ apparently,” Steve replied.  “I don’t know, I think Sam just wanted to find something that makes me interact with people.  Sometimes it’s hard.  Talking to people who weren’t over there.  But, I have to talk about the glass, what to do and how to do it, or I’m just going to screw it up, so.  So, I try to do that.”

“Does it help?” Tony asked tightly over the thrum of the bus’s engine.  He could put a furnace in the Tower.  That…had to be fine with Code Compliance.  Hell, he built missiles in there, why not?

“I guess. Sometimes,” Steve answered stiffly, lacing and unlacing his hands, like he couldn’t decide what to do with them.

“You do pretty good talking to me,” Tony observed.  “I mean, we’ve practically solved the global energy crisis, debated appropriate condiment application, and I threatened you with battery by chocolate, but it isn’t like we don’t talk.”

“It’s different with you,” Steve replied, sounding almost surprised by the admission.  “I could always talk to you.”

“Bear with me, because I know this is crazy, but it’s almost like if you love someone, then their life is interesting to you, even if you don’t seem to have much in common,” Tony said, giving Steve a shrewd, assessing look. 

“It’s a bus ride, Tony.  It isn’t—it’s just a bus ride,” Steve said, giving Tony a quick, apologetic glance.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Tony replied, quirking an eyebrow.

“This is my stop,” Steve told him.  “Thanks for breakfast. And the company.”

“Anytime. Actually, every time.  I have a bus pass, remember,” Tony replied, standing up to move towards the door and managing to almost trip over the wheel of a stroller sticking out into the aisle, though Steve shot out a hand to grab his arm before he unironically face-planted into the Watch Your Step sign.  “It’s public transportation, Steve.  I’m the public,” Tony pointed out, when he regained his footing.

“People who have a public are not the public,” Steve countered, nodding towards the pack of teenage boys taking turns leaning in to take a selfie with Tony in the background.  They stepped off the bus a few feet from a large, gray-sided building with a slanted roof and the name of a pharmaceutical company spelled out in blocky letters on the side. 

“See you at five,” Tony called out, clapping Steve on the shoulder.

“You’re not serious,” Steve said incredulously. 

“Bus. Pass,” Tony replied, slowly enunciating each word. 

“Tony—“ Steve broke off, running a hand through his hair. 

“Tell me you don’t love me, and this ends right now,” Tony said quietly.  “I’m not actually trying to ruin your life.  Not anymore than I already have.”

“None of—of what happened is your fault,” Steve said.  “None of it, Tony.”

“Feels a little like it might be,” Tony admitted, squinting against the biting wind that was whipping through his hair and lifting the tails of his coat. 

“That’s because you think you should be smart enough to control things that no one can control, and blame yourself when you can’t,” Steve replied, voice tight and thick.  “I wish you wouldn’t do that to yourself.”

“I should’ve loved you better.  You never would’ve thought—what you thought, if I’d loved you how you deserved.  I held back.  I know I did.  I thought, God.  I don’t know, I thought you’d think I was pathetic or—or too needy or clingy or something if I told you,” Tony stammered.  He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and gave Steve a hard look.  “You brought me into your world, made me a part of it.  Your mom, your friends, your apartment, your job—hell, I went to your supervisor’s bowling tournament, for Christ’s sake--everything.  You got me checks and a bank account.  What did I do?  I kept you locked away from everything to do with my life, except Rhodey, and only because he was joined at my hip.  I know—now, anyway, not when it mattered—but, now, I--I know how that must have made you feel. It wasn’t you, though.  At all.  It was me, being an insecure jackass and wanting to keep this amazing, wonderful, blindingly happy thing I had away from the freakshow that was my life.  That’s no excuse, but.  It wasn’t you.”

“You didn’t…you always made me happy,” Steve said, but Tony could hear the weakness that threaded through that denial.

“No, I didn’t.  I thought I was, but I--I should’ve told you. About the money.  I wanted you to love me for me, and not the money, and I ended up in the same damn loop I was trying to avoid, shouting, ‘Look, kids, Big Ben, Parliament,’ until my throat was dry, all because I was too damn scared it would matter, so it became the only thing that mattered,” Tony husked out.  “I should’ve told you about my dad.  Taken you to meet him like you wanted.  Together.  United front, so to speak.  It would’ve been a lot damn harder for him to—to do what he did if I’d just told you what he was like instead of worrying so much that you might realize he was right.”

“Don’t say that!” Steve snapped.  “Don’t you give him that, Tony.  Don’t do that.”

“I know. I do.  Really. Years of not going to see my therapist to the contrary, I do know that now.  Some days, it’s harder to believe, but I do know it,” Tony replied.  “Believing’s harder than knowing, though, isn’t it?  That’s where we are.  You know I love you.  You know it, Steve, I know you do.  You just can’t quite believe it.  I get it.  There were a lot of things I should’ve done, but top of the list is making you my partner in all the ways that really mattered.  So, I get it. The whole not believing me now thing. Why would you?”

“Tony,” Steve breathed out, drawing out the word in a long rasp of air.  “It’s not—it’s not you.  God, that’s so cliché.  I’m sorry.  It’s me, it’s—I can’t.  I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“I know.  It’s okay.  Really, it’s okay.  I’m not asking for the big Hamptons wedding thing,” Tony rushed out, waving a placating hand in the air.  “Well, I mean, I am, but not right now. Right now, I just want to ride to work with you.  Talk a bit.  Get to know you.  You get to know me again.  Maybe we have lunch one day.  Maybe we go sit up on the roof and barbeque this weekend.”

“It’s February.  In New York,” Steve reminded him after a long pause.

“That’s not a no,” Tony pointed out. 

“Bucky says I’m shit at saying no to you,” Steve admitted, hoisting the backpack up on his shoulder.  The wind was making his hair spike, and Tony had to resist the urge to reach up and run his hand through it to pat it down. 

“That, as it happens, is one of the things I like best about you,” Tony responded with a smile.  “Now, don’t you have work?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I do,” Steve repeated, glancing over at the building with ill-concealed disinterest.  _Good_.

“So, I’ll see you at, what, five?” Tony asked, drawing Steve’s gaze back to him.

“I guess.  It’s public transportation after all,” Steve replied, though there was a teasing glint in his eyes.  He turned and started heading towards the building where another man in a similar uniform was already swiping a card at the security door.  “Bucky’s got one of those George Foreman’s,” Steve called out over his shoulder as he walked away.

It took Tony a second to figure out why Barnes had an ex-boxer, but then his mind caught up. 

“I’ll bring brats,” Tony shouted.  He was so giddy with relief, he was almost shaking.  Could be the coffee, lack of sleep and skipping breakfast, but he decided to stick on relief.  Happy honked the car horn, and pulled up to the curb in front of the pharmaceutical company, then hopped out to open the Bentley’s door. 

“Hey, Boss,” Happy said.  “How’d the bus ride go?” he asked when he climbed back behind the driver’s wheel.

“Good?  I think good.  I’m sure I’ll get my Yelp review from Barnes later.  ‘Didn’t totally fuck it up.  Four out of five almost-exes still wouldn’t give him a glass of water if he were on fire.’  But it seemed to go well,” Tony said with a shrug.  “I need to be back at five,” Tony told him, glancing down at the watch on his wrist.  “Take me back to the Tower for now.  I’m feeling inspired.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Happy replied with a nod.  He maneuvered the car into traffic and headed back towards Manhattan. 

Tony reclined his head against the back of the seat and let out a hiss of air.  He brought a hand up to rub at his temples.  He hadn’t realized how tense he was until it subsided, like someone had turned the pressure valve to open and he could finally breathe again without the hitching tightness in his chest.  His eyes drifted shut for a moment, then he lifted his head and pulled out his phone.

“How did it go?” Pepper asked without preamble.

“Pretty good.  I think.  Maybe?  I mean, it could’ve gone a lot worse, so…” Tony trailed off, looking through the tinted glass at the sun dappling the glass and metal skyscrapers.  “We talked.  Good talk.  I think we might be barbequing on the roof?  I need brats.  For Saturday.  Where can we get brats? The good kind from one of those Kosher delis where everyone yells at you.  God, I’m going to have to invite Barnes because he has the George Foreman.  I fucking hate boxing.”

“Brats—boxing—what?  Tony, it’s February.  In New York,” Pepper said carefully. 

“Yeah.  I heard,” Tony snorted.  “Did you take care of our little judicial issue?”

“It’s barely eight in the morning, Tony, but, yes, I’m on it,” Pepper responded with a thread of exasperation in her voice.  “The resignation paperwork has been drawn up.  I’ll deliver it personally this afternoon.  If there’s a problem, I’ll let you know.”

“He should probably be more concerned about how he’s going to explain things to the IRS,” Tony said.

“What things?  What IRS things, Tony?  What did you do?” Pepper demanded. 

“Spent some time digging last night while Carl—is it Carl?  Lovely fellow. Got to see lots more of Carl than I really wanted, to be honest, but, anyway, Carl was working on the wiring while Miguel, Trey and Dave were, I guess, supervising?  At any rate, got some time to check out our dear judge, and it turns out he has several accounts with a Cayman Islands brokerage firm, which, funnily enough, used to operate under a different name, under which Justice charged it with conspiracy to commit tax evasion twice, though they could never get enough evidence.  I am feeling the stirrings of civic duty,” Tony told her.  “Don’t worry,” he added.  “I’m not going to do anything that implicates SI in any way.  Guy took money under the table from dear, old Pops, he had to hide it somewhere.”

“Fine.  Fine, just do me a favor and keep it out of the papers, okay?” Pepper pleaded.  “Someone at the Times already has a whiff that something’s going on with you, so keep your head down.  To the extent that is humanly possible for you.  Or, Tony, you know it’s going to come back on Steve.”

“Yeah,” Tony said dully.  “Yeah, shit.  There’s no way that’s not going to be an issue.  Can you get in front of it?”

“Already working on it.  Luckily, his service record is impeccable.  I think I can spin pretty much anything they want to throw at us, but I’d like to be spinning a happy ending.  A bit easier,” Pepper said.

“Working on it.  Team Happily Ever After.  Rah-rah,” Tony replied, rubbing his fingers at his temple again.

“Are you coming back to the Tower?” she asked.

“On my way,” Tony promised.  “I have some ideas about the whole clean energy thing and how to tackle the Board—well, Obie, in particular—that I’d like to run by you.”

“You have ideas.  About the Board.  Of Directors.  And you want to talk to me about them before rushing in and telling them all why they’re, and I’m quoting, if you remember, all a bunch of ‘knuckle-dragging, stone-bangers who wouldn’t know a good idea if the gods wrote it down, rolled it up, stuck it in a Coke bottle, dropped it in Africa, where it was found by a tribesman, who threw it off a cliff where it landed in the sand, rolled down a hill and literally spelled out Good Idea.’  I mean, you were very specific,” Pepper reminded him.  “Not saying you were wrong.  Just specific.  So, now you want to talk it out first?  Who is this and what have you done with Tony Stark?” she teased.

“I’m…marshalling my forces. That’s a thing,” Tony offered.  “Speaking of, we’re going to need Rhodey for this.  And whoever he can get from ACE to come tell the Board how much money we can make off a clean energy system that actually works.”

“Well, consider your forces marshaled, then,” she replied lightly.  “I’ll give James a call.  See you in a bit?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, clicking the phone off.  

The rest of the morning was spent fine-tuning strategy with Pepper and a yawning Rhodey, who was making an admirable, if vain, attempt to out-caffeine Tony.  He ended up with his head on Tony’s laptop, which he insisted was warm and made a pleasant hum. 

“Okay, okay, enough with your little Gaia project strategy session, spill it, Tony,” Rhodey insisted in a thick, slurry tone without lifting his head from atop the computer or opening his eyes.  “Hey, you kept me up way past my bedtime last night.  Don’t judge.”

“You’re cranky when you’re tired,” Tony pointed out helpfully.  “Someone get him his lovey.  Do we have nap mats?  We should have nap mats.”

“He said it went well.  He’s going to try to freeze himself to death having some kind of party on the roof of the dilapidated building he just bought, which will probably collapse and/or set off some kind of natural gas disaster, but he’s having some ex-boxer as his celebrity guest, so,” Pepper rattled off with a smile.  “So far, so good,” she finished, nodding her head from side to side.

“I might have suggested a barbeque.  Stop!” Tony said quickly when Rhodey raised his head.  “I know. It’s February. In New York.  I—seriously, I have a calendar and a map program.  Steve said yes, so shut it.  Speaking of my dearly beloved, I gotta leave in a bit to go meet him.  Thanks for the bus pass, by the way,” he added with a nod at Pepper.

“Please tell me there will be pictures of this,” Rhodey piped up.  “Tony Stark, riding the looser-cruiser.”

“You told me you used to ride the bus to school every day,” Tony pointed out.

“Just keeping it from being a Twinkie,” Rhodey snorted.  “Big, yellow thing taking all the white kids to school across town,” he explained at Tony’s blank look.  “Twinkie.  Mom used to wait at the stop with me every morning and she’d be waiting there every afternoon. Drove my cool points way down.  In retrospect, it probably also kept me from doing something truly stupid. Oh, God.  I’m going to have to wait at the bus stop for you, aren’t I?”

“Ha-ha,” Tony replied flatly.  “Don’t encourage him,” he admonished Pepper, who was already happily emailing Rhodey what was, no doubt, an MTA bus schedule. 

“Someone has to keep tabs on you. One bus ride, and suddenly you’re half Zig Ziglar, half Ms. Frizzle.  I don’t know what to think,” Pepper admitted with a teasing grin.

“He always did his best work when he was trying to impress Steve,” Rhodey drawled, raising his eyebrows at Tony in emphasis. 

“I’m not…this is not about trying to impress Steve. This is about what’s best for the company, which, happens to, by complete coincidence, also, maybe, be sort of impressive, if you wanted to look at it that way,” Tony protested, looking back and forth between them.  “Once the Board approves the project, we should have a press release.  Maybe a press conference, too. Can you get some airtime?  To tell people.  Having nothing to do with the thing I just said.”

“Riiiiight,” Pepper smirked.  “Nothing to do with it, um-humm.”

“Okay, so, maybe a bit of my, ah, enthusiasm for this plan is that it incorporates some of Steve’s suggestions—good suggestions, I might add, you all agreed.  No takebacks.  And, you know, maybe I’m trying to be better about that whole inclusionary thing,” Tony acknowledged.  “I’m trying, Pepper.  These are good ideas.  This technology is a good thing. It’ll help our soldiers, and it’ll help the company.  If it also has the side-effect of helping Steve to feel like he’s a part of my life, well.  Win-win.  Or, win-win-win.  Lots of winning.  Winning for everyone. Charlie Sheen levels of winning.  No, not Sheen.  Someone less creepy.  But, you get my point.  There was a point,” Tony finished.

“Calm down, Tones, we get it.  Rogers is right about the need for infrastructure and the military’s interest in it. Not so much the military industrial complex’s interest, but you’ve got people in the know who see the issues, and you’ve got a lot of people who earned their stripes with boots on the ground.  Something that was missing for a long time.  They know what’s got to happen over there,” Rhodey agreed.  “If it impresses your boyfriend, that’s good, too.  Just, don’t do the dance.  You lose like a thousand cool points.”

“That was one time,” Tony barked accusingly.  “One time.  That thesis defense killed.  Fluidic Elastomer Actuators in Soft Robots?  Come on, how could I—okay, fine. No dance.”

“Can I get a witness?” Rhodey asked the room in a deep, commanding voice.

“Steve liked my thesis. He wouldn’t mock my dance,” Tony muttered, twirling a paperclip around on the glass-top conference table.  “Okay, he would, but he would secretly like it. Pepper!”

“I’m literally sitting right here,” Pepper reminded him.

“Right.  I need everything you can find on glassblowing.  And art therapy.  And PTSD.  And flexion spinal fractures.  Nerve damage.  Microsurgery.  Physical therapy,” Tony ticked off the list in his head.  “Don’t we fund some kind of recovery center for wounded veterans?  We should.  Let’s do that.  We also need to improve vehicle protection on our ground transports, too, I’ll take a look at—“

“Whoa, whoa!  Tony, can we take this one step at a time?  Your little coup of the Board, then we solve every other problem that’s somehow related to Steve?” Pepper suggested, holding up a hand.

“Okay, we’re all professionals here. I think we can multitask,” Tony argued. 

“Go,” Pepper ordered. 

“I sat in a car while he was in surgery.  Just sat there.  They had to keep him immobilized because of the back thing.  Because when the IED hit, the Humvee flipped, and he was pinned, upside down like that, until they could get there and cut him out.  He had to wait there, like that.  Until someone came.  He wouldn’t have known if it was us or them.  He wouldn’t have known about Barnes. He’d just have been stuck there, you know, so.  So, I can do some reading,” Tony said quietly. 

“Alright,” Pepper said after a long beat of silence.  “Alright, Tony.  I’ll get to work on it.”

“Barnes was with him when it happened?” Rhodey asked. 

“Yeah.  He was the gunner.  Got thrown.  Arm took the worst of it, obviously.  Hey, we should talk to someone in our medical division about prosthetics,” Tony suggested.

“We don’t have a medical division,” Pepper pointed out.

“About that,” Tony began.

“You get one company-altering decision per day, Tony,” Pepper gritted out.  “Go catch your bus to your Brooklyn hovel with your almost-ex.  Wow.  The sentences you end up saying with this job.”

“Let’s face it.  You’ve had to say worse.  That time with the strippers, the guy in the wrong half of a donkey costume and the Cabinet member who shall remain forever nameless, though, I like to call him Hee-Haw, if anyone’s wondering, comes to mind,” Tony recalled. 

“Go,” Rhodey urged.  “Call if the other kids on the bus pick on you or try to steal your lunch money.  I’ll get things set up with someone from the Corps for your next Board meeting.  Pepper, I’ll send you the contact info. Get all the financials squared away before Tony presents anything.”

“Make some of those graphs.  They like the graphs.  Hand to God, that guy with the comb-over jerks off to pie charts,” Tony replied.

“That’s your CFO, Tony,” Pepper reminded him.

“Guy loves numbers, what can I say?  I’m not one to judge,” Tony shrugged, grabbing his coat.  “The issue we talked about this morning handled?” he asked as he shoved an arm into the sleeve. 

“After a brief discussion, he decided to resign from his position,” Pepper informed him. 

“Who’s resigning?” Rhodey asked. 

“Judge Dredd,” Tony quipped. 

“Ah.  Good.  Hope the bastard is losing his shit over this,” Rhodey announced vehemently. 

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say this is just the first of many terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days for our bastion of justice,” Tony said through gritted teeth. “Hey.  Thanks.  Both of you.  For, you know.  This and last night.  Everything.  If I haven’t said it lately, you’re both paid way too much.  Like, vastly overpaid.  Does the government know that you had your truck wrapped?  Who does that? That’s putting the honky back in the tonky, my friend.  Goes with your 8-track collection, though.”

“See what we did?  We came this close to having a moment,” Rhodey said, shaking his head and letting it drop back to the desk.  “You hush about my baby.  She looks great.  Do I mock your teeny-tiny sportscars?”

“You got me a customized license plate that said ‘CMPNSTG’” Tony reminded him, grinning widely.

“You gave me truck balls for Christmas,” Rhodey said, lifting his head up to cradle it in his hands.  “You had the package sent to the Pentagon.  Truck. Balls.  I opened them in front of two Joint Chiefs.”

Pepper muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like ‘Boys’ and got up from the table.  Tony waved a hand to Rhodey, who shot him a one-fingered salute and went back to his laptop pillow. 

“Let me know how the ride homes goes tonight,” Rhodey called out in a muffled, sleepy-sounding voice. 

“Will do,” Tony said.  “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck. You’re going to need it,” Rhodey huffed out.

“Why’s that?” Tony asked as he walked towards the conference room door.

“Barnes and Natasha are coming over to Steve’s with dinner and judgment,” Rhodey replied. 

“Greeeeaaaat,” Tony said, rolling his eyes.  “That will be…not at all awkward.”

“I’m your wingman, don’t worry. We got this,” Rhodey assured him, tapping his chest with his fist and pointing at Tony.  “You and me.”

“Go Team?” Tony offered shakily.

“I am the Master of Woo.  Sweep his stubborn ass off his feet,” Rhodey muttered and plopped his head back down.

“Great. Wonderful. That’s…yeah, so, okay, that’s the plan, then.  We can tell Steve about the whole Board thing—being his idea and all—have some dinner.  With Barnes and Nat.  Fun.  Good times.  I’m excited for this plan,” Tony stammered, planting his hands on his hips.  “Got my wingman.  Master of Woo. It’s all good. Everything’s going to be fine. How could this possibly go wrong?”

“The Master of Woo is drooling on your laptop,” Pepper pointed out helpfully.


	12. Chapter 12

“So, Pepper and Rhodey loved your—our—idea about how to work the Board on the arc reactor project.  Pepper’s making graphs.  Rhodey’s going to find a guy from the Corps, but thinks it would be better if we somehow referenced the inherent superiority of the Air Force.  Admittedly, I’m not sure how that’s related, but you can’t say the guy doesn’t offer valuable input,” Tony announced as he made his way towards where Steve stood under the glass bus stop enclosure.

It was a little after five in the evening by the time Happy dropped Tony off outside the building where Steve worked, and already dark enough for stars to be visible and headlights to form a chain of white dots, punctuated by insistent honking, up and down the street.  The temperature was dropping fast.  Tony’s lungs were already burning with the cold night air, and he could feel it seeping through the layers of clothing and settling over his skin.

“How is an Air Force pilot different from a jet engine?” Steve asked when Tony sidled up next to him.

“How?” Tony responded, shoving his hands in his pockets and curling  them into fists.

“Engine stops whining after it lands,” Steve said mildly, then laughed at his own joke.  Tony bit the inside of his cheek, shoulders shaking with mirth, mostly at the familiar resurgence of Steve’s inherent goofball.

“That’s terrible.  You should be ashamed.  I’m texting Rhodey right now, by the way,” Tony told him, pulling out his phone and starting to type.  “He’s coming tonight.  My wingman.  So to speak. If that’s okay.”

“This dinner thing is all Bucky and Nat’s idea,” Steve said with a noncommittal shrug.  Not exactly a yes, but also not a no.  Tony wanted to ignore the lack of enthusiasm, but he’d promised not to push.  Which probably also meant pushing by proxy was off the table, too.

“Is it too much?  Dinner and all?  I can tell them to call it off,” Tony offered.  Please say no, please say no, he mentally chanted.  He wasn’t sure how he’d handle only getting a couple of hours of Steve’s time during a commute.  Steve seemed to treat the morning’s Tony-shaped surprise like a forced march he had to suffer through and then like something Tony would ditch like a Taylor Swift boyfriend, given half the chance.   Not exactly the kind of attitude that screamed ready to rekindle a relationship, Tony mused.

“It’s fine, Tony,” Steve replied.  “It will be good to catch up with James.  Always good to have an Air Force pilot around.  Hey, you know how you know there’s a pilot at a party?” Steve asked, tossing Tony a smirk before turning back to watch the approaching bus.   “He’ll tell you.”

 The bus pulled up to the curb, and they shifted to the side so people could exit, then filed onboard. Tony tugged his bus pass out of his coat pocket with somewhat less glee than he’d managed in the morning.  It somehow seemed less part of a plan, more a desperation play, than it had over bagels, jelly and quips.

“Ah, the sweet smell of mutual service branch respect.  Good day at work?” Tony asked as they made their way towards the back of the bus. 

“I guess,” Steve replied.  He slunk into one of the few bench seats open, leaving a spot for Tony next to him.

“Anything interesting happen?” Tony pressed.

“Not really,” Steve answered.  He had his backpack in his lap and was looking out the large window at the passing street as the bus pulled away. 

“Wow.  Scintillating conversation there, Steve.  Thanks,” Tony replied with a roll of his eyes and a frustrated grimace.

“I used some new cleaner on the urinals.  Seemed to do a good job,” Steve said drolly.  “Diluted bleach is still best, but this got the job done.”

“You used to tell me work stories all the time,” Tony grumped.  “Now, I get urinal bleaching?  Come on.  You’re not even trying.  It’s basically a regulated meth lab in there.  Please tell me there is some Secret of Nimh, Mrs. Brisbey-esque shit going down.”

“I’m just building crew.  They have special cleaners for the labs,” Steve replied, then looked over at Tony, flattening his mouth a bit, before giving up and continuing.  “You crazy college kids did get up to some seriously questionable hygienic practices,” Steve recalled with a touch of wry fondness.  “Still can’t figure out the piano in the second floor supply closet at Wiesner.  Which, that part was weird, sure, and physically impossible, but why the stuffed penguin?  That kept me up nights.”

“ _I_ kept you up nights.  He was fancy, little night music, I don’t know,” Tony replied.  “Look, the point is, I’m trying here, so can you…you know, give me something?” Tony asked plaintively. 

“Sorry,” Steve said, looking down at where his hands wrapped around his backpack.  “I’m—I know you’re trying, Tony.  I do.  I appreciate it.  I think,” Steve amended with a frown.  “I’m just not sure what to do with it.”

“I play, you know.  Piano,” Tony replied.  “Did I ever tell you that?”

“No,” Steve answered.  “Wait—yes.  Sort of. At Nat’s birthday.  You played ‘Happy Birthday’ on the piano at the bar.”

“I have a Fazioli at the Tower.  When you come by, I’ll play for you.  Whatever you want,” Tony promised, his voice quavering oddly at the thought.  Nervousness, Tony thought.  Excitement. 

The idea of playing something for Steve, while Steve sat on the sofa, watching him, with the city lit up in the background.  He was good.  Not great, not concert-level, but good.  Steve would like it, no matter, because it was him, and just the fact that he knew that was enough to make him almost giddy.  “Mozart. Chopin.  Lennon.  I can even peck out some Pantera and Black Sabbath, believe it or not.”

“You always did like the classics,” Steve said dryly.

Someone had crossed out part of the emergency exit sign so that it helpfully instructed passengers to ‘Lift to open. Push out bottom.  Do not block. Alarm will sound.’   Tony nudged Steve’s shoulder and nodded his head at it with a smirk. 

“Words to live by,” Tony snorted, raising his eyebrows.  “No kidding, alarm will sound.  You think???”

“And you think _my_ humor is bad?” Steve objected.  “You have never met a terrible pun you didn’t love.”

“I’m preemptively objecting to your humor on behalf of my best friend, the decorated Air Force veteran. My sense of humor, on the other hand, is obviously too refined for you.  I see that now,” Tony said with an exaggerated sigh.

“I submit to you, as evidence in opposition to your proposition:  Valentine’s Day card, the year 2000,” Steve retorted.  “I can’t wait to intersect with you?” Steve quoted, raising an eyebrow.

“I made that myself!  That was a great card!” Tony protested, swiveling in his seat.  “When you solved the equation and graphed it out, the lines intersected.  I can’t wait to intersect--how is that not funny?” Tony demanded, throwing his hand up in the air.  He shot a look at the middle-aged man in a rumpled suit sitting on the seat opposite them, who was giving Tony a befuddled stare.  “It’s funny, right?  He thinks it’s funny,” Tony asserted to Steve.

“Are you—“ the man began

“Drag queen lookalike.  Stage name’s Fe Male,” Tony said evenly, making the man blink at him and go back to staring at his phone, while occasionally giving Tony surreptitious glances.  “What?  It’s catchy.  Got a nice ring to it.”

“You realize that you are literally making my point for me.  Anyway, I’m not saying it wasn’t funny,” Steve said quickly, holding his hands out in surrender.  “Not sure I’d shoot for refined, though.”

“Fine,” Tony said.  He pulled his phone out and looked down at the message.  “Um…Rhodey says I’m supposed to tell you that Army stands for Airforce Rejected Me Yesterday.”

“Oh, really? That what Mr. Chair Force said?  Give me that,” Steve said, reaching out for Tony’s phone. 

“Eh! Can you two please not,” Tony protested with a laugh, holding the phone at arm’s length.  “God, are you both twelve?  Insult him tonight over food and beer like a real man.”

“You don’t have to come tonight, you know,” Steve said after a beat.  “I’m sure you and Rhodey have stuff to do.  Work and all.”

“I worked today,” Tony told him.   “Rhodey liaises with me.  SI, I mean.  Mostly, its strategic napping, but whatever.  Besides, why would I not want to spend the evening with you, Barnes, and Nat? I’m sure that will be not at all awkward or reeking of silent judgment.”

“Buck’s not mad at you anymore.  Says you may be an idiot, but not a total loser,” Steve offered with a grin.

“Awww, that’s so sweet of him.  I might cry,” Tony deadpanned, shooting Steve a grimace.

“He said that I don’t know how to let something good happen to me,” Steve continued in a flat, unaffected tone.  He was staring out the window, not really seeming to see much of anything, but kept letting his gaze slide halfway to Tony before pulling it back.

Great.  Now, I might actually cry, Tony thought, feeling his chest tighten at Steve’s words. 

“Am I something good in this scenario?  High praise from Barnes,” Tony responded as softly as he could over the roar of the bus engine. 

“You’re always something good,” Steve declared in the same easy, staunchly certain way that Steve said things when he really meant them. 

“Ugh—what are you doing to me?  God, Steve, come on, I think we both know that isn’t true.  Wasn’t that great for you back then, was I?  Kind of screwed up your life, didn’t I?” Tony countered with a frustrated twist of his mouth.  “I mean, look at things objectively. You’d have been better off never meeting me.”

“Don’t you say that, Tony.  Don’t.  Don’t do that.  Even with how it ended…I don’t regret any of it.  You think I’d trade knowing you for—for anything? You were always the best part of my life,” Steve replied with enough force to momentarily take Tony aback.  “So just…just stop thinking that kind of thing, okay?”

“Okay,” Tony agreed, mainly because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“This one time…” Steve started after an awkward, expectant silence when it seemed there was nothing to say and too much to say at the same time.  “This one time, one of our convoy trucks shot at us.  Not the soldiers in it shooting at us, like friendly fire or something. The truck,” Steve explained, seemingly out of nowhere.  “The truck shot at us.”

It took Tony a second to realize that Steve was trying to find a story to share with Tony like he used to.  No well-dressed, musical-loving bird in a supply closet, but Steve was trying, which sent a burst of warm, eager hopefulness pooling low in Tony’s stomach. 

“You got shot at by a truck?” Tony asked somewhat incredulously.  “Who gets shot at by a truck?  Okay, legitimately, they’d probably get a pass at taking out Michael Bay based on Transformers 2 alone, but otherwise…”

“The 915 in front of us, big tractor truck thing, it lost part of its ammo load on the road.  Everyone just keeps driving through the pile, though, ‘cause we can’t stop.  But, apparently, the truck in front of us picked some up, and it got caught in the tire tread.  About ten miles down the road, damn thing starts spewing tracer fire back at us,” Steve recounted.  “We’re tryin’ to radio them, and they think we’re pulling one, you know?  Tell us to lay off.  Meanwhile, Buck’s up in the turret cursing their grandmothers, and Clint starts shouting that he’s not going to be taken out because of a damned Tonka with a poor attitude.  And that’s the time we got shot at by a truck,” Steve finished with a firm nod.  “Ammo guy back at the base said no way, but I swear, that’s what happened.”

“Only you.  This kind of thing could only happen to you.  Well, you and Barnes,” Tony amended.   “Did you write me?  About that, I mean?”

“I think so.  Yeah,” Steve replied quietly after a long enough pause that Tony thought he wasn’t going to get more of an answer.

“I’d have told you it was the friction.  Between the temperature in general and the friction from the roadway, the casing heated up enough to blow, even without the primer.  Highly unusual, but not impossible,” Tony said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

“That…would’ve been nice.  To know what it was, I mean,” Steve replied, giving Tony a quick, darting look.  Tony watched Steve’s throat bob around the words.  There was a muscle ticking in his jaw, and it didn’t take much in the way of imagination to figure out the list of what-could’ve-beens that had to be scrolling through Steve’s mind.

 Memories.  That’s what they had now, Tony thought, with a sigh.  Memories that were slowly casting off their taint and a boatload of shared regret. Maybe that was all they would ever have, but he couldn’t let this go without trying for something more.  The whole thing was crazy.   Buying buildings, putting the band back together, the pseudo-stalking that he was currently doing…it wasn’t like he didn’t realize how insane it all was when you got down to it.  But, Steve had gotten him checks and read his thesis and held onto Ursa Major for as long as he could.  And now, Tony was on a bus, and Steve was making some kind of an effort, even if it was half-hearted and tinged with resignation.

Once, Steve had wanted him to stay.  Tony was fairly sure that Steve didn’t want him to leave, even now, not really, and that was so close to wanting him to stay.  So very close. Give it time, he told himself sternly.  Woo.  Lots of woo.  He could woo.  For some reason, he heard laughter in his head that sounded a lot like Rhodey’s.

 _I want to intersect with you_.  Steve remembered that.  Five million dollars said it was probably in that box of his, with all his other Tony-related stuff.  That stupid Valentine’s Day card Tony had made, showing off, thinking he was clever, wanting Steve to think he was clever.

We’ve been so far apart, for so long, Tony thought.    Parallel lives that never managed to find each other.  He’d meant it as a terrible and obvious pun, then, of course, but now…now, he just wanted a connection.  A moment in time when they did intersect, in all the ways that truly mattered.  The lines didn’t start out at the meeting point, though.  They had to build, to grow, to work their way to that moment of connection.  They had to earn it.

“This is where we change buses,” Steve announced when the bus crawled to a halt. 

Tony slid out of the bench seat and waited until the doors swung inward to step off the bus.  Steve followed behind him.  This stop lacked a bus shelter, so they stood in the wind, both staring down the street, waiting on the next bus. 

It wasn’t cold enough to snow, just cold enough to send shards of icy rain wafting down in that half-assed way that only New York weather managed.  Tony pulled his coat tighter around his chest and pushed his hands in his pockets.  He glanced down the street in the direction the bus would come, then looked up at Steve, who was doing the same thing, with an impatient grimace.

“God, it’s cold. Is it always this cold?  Who knew my fate would be a half-frozen corpse with a bus-pass?  Page Six will go nuts,” Tony muttered, watching his breath come in puffs that quickly blew away with the wind and rain. 

“It’s only been a couple of minutes, Tony,” Steve reminded him.  “Bus’ll be here soon.”

Flecks of ice kept dampening his hair, slickening down cold against his scalp as the droplets began to fall in earnest.  Tony started rocking back and forth on his heels, rubbing up and down on his arms to brace against the chill. 

“This whole city’s like a fucking wind tunnel,” Tony said after a long pause.  The wind made it feel exponentially worse than it was, sending the icy rain on a slant that stung any skin exposed to it like tiny needles.  Also, wet.  Ugh, Tony thought miserably.

Steve turned and shifted his stance, moving closer to Tony.  He was blocking the wind, or at least doing his best to try.  It was such a simple, familiar, Steve-ish thing to do.  Tony wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug him or cry.  Maybe both.  He settled for wiping his thumb across his eyes and told himself the stinging moisture was from the wind and cold.  They’d both lost so God-damned much.  He couldn’t think about it, or he’d probably end up a blubbering mess on the side of the road next to a dry cleaner’s and the dubiously named World Class Restaurant that boasted both authentic pho and New York-style pizza. 

“You’re not wrong,” Steve told him. 

“What?” Tony blurted out distractedly.

“About the wind,” Steve explained.  “Ever walked past the Flatiron when the wind’s really blowing?  Twenty-three skidoo.  Mom said that’s where it comes from.  Guys used to hang around there on 23rd where it tapers to the corner, hoping for a glimpse when the ladies’ skirts’d blow up.  Police would come by and tell ‘em to scram, and they’d all make a break for it.  Twenty-three skidoo.”

“Good Lord, you’re such an old man sometimes,” Tony teased.  “Twenty-three skidoo.  Who says that?   I’m going to say it.  I’m bringing it back.  Sorry Pep, can’t go to the meeting, gotta twenty-three skidoo.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Steve said, barely audible over the wind and constant traffic noise.  “You can do so much. Anything you put your mind to.  You should be…” he stopped, the words catching in his throat. 

“Here. This is where I should be.  God, Steve.  Next to you.  This.  This is where I’m supposed to be.  I know it with every fiber of my being.   There is literally nothing I’m more sure of than that I am right where I’m supposed to be,” Tony insisted.  “Not the standing in the fucking not-snow in the middle of Lower BFE, okay, sure, but,” Tony said, spreading his arms wide.  “Why does it smell like week old beef and broccoli here?  Anyway, this part, not a fan. I’ll admit. But the talking thing.  The us-thing.  I want to do those things.  All the time. And if I have to do it here, well, fine,” Tony sputtered.  “God, I feel like I’m caught in some melodramatic Dr. Seuss book.  I would talk to you in a car or on a bus or in your class. I would talk to you anywhere, you stubborn ass.”

Steve let out a short, surprised bark of laughter, then nodded.  His breath was coming in warm, cloudy puffs in the space between them.  He steepled his hands over his mouth and blew into them to warm them, then rubbed them together. 

“You’re something else, Tony,” Steve said, shaking his head back and forth.  “Alright.  Call Happy.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked, momentarily thrown.  “Seriously?”

“You’re turning into a popsicle.  Don’t say it,” Steve interrupted before Tony could get a word in. 

“Free licks!  Sorry.  Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.  I loved that shirt.  Okay, calling now.  Don’t get all grumpy,” Tony said, pulling out his phone and punching Happy’s number.  “Hey, Happy.  Yeah, can you come pick us up at the corner of What Were We Thinking and We’re Too Good Looking For This?  What?  No, I’m—no, those are not real street names. God, put down the MAPCO.  Did you find that thing next to a couple of stone tablets with like, say, around ten strongly worded suggestions on them?  Look, I’m sending the GPS coordinates to your phone. Just do what the soothing voice tells you,” Tony said, shooting Steve an exasperated look.  “He’s on his way.  Maybe.”

“Good,” Steve said, rubbing his hands together again, then flexing the damaged hand and giving it a quick shake before he shoved them back in his pockets.  “It gets stiff sometimes,” Steve said when he caught Tony’s gaze.

“Would it help if I rubbed it?” Tony asked, to which Steve responded by doubling over with laughter.  “Wow.  I honestly completely missed that one.  I was concerned.  Your hand and the cold and--dammit, Rogers, quit laughing!  I was trying to be thoughtful.  No, wait, don’t.  It’s a good look on you.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve said around a smirk that said he wasn’t even remotely sorry.  “That’s very nice of you to offer,” Steve continued, biting his lip while his shoulders shook.

“Shut up,” Tony replied, trying for indignant, but he couldn’t stop the grin from spreading.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the top of Steve’s chest.  It wasn’t intentional, so much as instinctual, a long-forgotten habit that he apparently never quite managed to break.  Steve stiffened underneath him, but didn’t move away.  Granted, he also didn’t move forward, but, baby steps, Tony supposed as he drew back and looked up to find Steve watching him, brows drawn together and face tight. 

“I didn’t mean to—sorry,” Tony said quickly, stepping back far enough to put some space between them.  He looked down the road for Happy, mainly to give himself something to concentrate on that wasn’t Steve.

“It’s okay,” Steve mumbled into the wind even as he turned away.  It wasn’t okay, maybe.  Not yet, anyway.  But, it wasn’t not okay, either.  Like everything Tony did, it seemed to exist for Steve in some space in between where he couldn’t quite decide which box to put it in.  Intersect. Connect.  One point on the graph at a time.  As long as you’re moving forward.  We’ll get there, Tony told himself with a confidence he didn’t quite feel.  They could do this.  They had to.  The alternative was…well.  He just wasn’t going to think about it.  He looked up at Steve, with his hair mussed from the wind and rain, standing on the street in some second rate part of town, trying his damnedest to hold on to some part of his carefully ordered life. 

“Gloves,” Tony said, since it was the first thing that came to his mind that didn’t involve outright begging. 

“Huh?” Steve asked, giving Tony a confused look.

“You should have gloves,” Tony pointed out, nodding in the general direction of where Steve’s hands were shoved in his pockets. 

“I got some,” Steve replied.  “Bucky had an extra pair and gave ‘em to me.  I just forgot this morning.  Guess I was, you know.  Kind of nervous,” Steve said, ducking his head and looking down the road again.

“Me, too.  Nervous, I mean,” Tony admitted, looking down at his own black-gloved hands.  “Speaking of things that give me the heebie-jeebies, you said Boris and Natasha got hitched last year, right?  Surprised it took them that long."

“Well, they did the big wedding thing up at Clint's a year or so ago.  In this big barn.  It was actually really nice, all decked out with lights, and they had a string quartet in the loft.  But, it was, I guess about three—no, almost four years ago, when they officially tied the knot," Steve answered.  “Nat was visiting the base.  She was a civilian contractor, but doing intelligence work for the military.  Showed up and surprised him.  Next thing I know, he’s dragging me out of bed and telling me to go down to the boardwalk—Kandahar has this whole outdoor shopping strip, TGIFridays and everything, it was crazy---Anyway, he wakes me up and tells me to go find a ring.  I suppose they just figured, why wait, you know?”

“Good for them,” Tony said with a somewhat surprising amount of genuine emotion behind it.  He was happy for them.  Really and truly happy. They were his friends, too. Or, they had been.  Jury was still out for now. 

The lump in his throat wasn’t from happiness, though.  It was jealousy and resentment and the nearly overwhelming desire to rail at a deity he didn’t believe in and demand to know why.  Why did they get that, and he and Steve didn’t?  Howard and his machinations, sure, and Tony could admit that he might have dug his own karmic grave, but Steve…Steve was good.  Really and truly _good_.  And this is what he got for it.  Chronic pain and a barely subsistence level job, with a ‘Thanks-so-much for your time, sorry about that whole bomb thing,’ from the country he served. 

None of it was fair.  Of course, not that anyone promised fair in life, but slightly less unfair wouldn’t completely suck, Tony thought, casting his eyes towards the greyed out night sky.   Just a little less unfair.

Nat and Barnes probably traded letters during his deployment.  Sent emails.  Skyped.  They visited each other.  She was there when Barnes was injured, at his bedside in the hospital.  Took care of him afterwards. 

Who took care of Steve?  The five-million-dollar question, thanks Howard.  With Barnes sidelined, Nat’s hands full, and Thor locked away in some dusty monastery vault pouring over ancient tomes, who put Steve first, even just here and there, even if it was just when they could and not all the time?  Who made sure he got to doctors’ appointments, rehab, all that crap?  Made him rest when he needed to, got him to laugh about it when he could, cried with him when needed that, too?  Tony knew the answer, but he couldn’t quite let himself think it. 

_Make him laugh.  He doesn’t do that so much anymore._

I’m trying, Tony thought to himself with a rush of desperate longing.  I’m trying.

“There’s Happy,” Tony said, nodding towards the car pulling up in front of them.  Luckily, Happy had gone for subtle today and driven the Rolls, Tony thought with a sigh.  “After you,” he said, waving Happy off from hopping out to open the door. 

Steve opened the door and climbed in.  Tony slid in next to him.  Ah, blessed warmth, he thought, sinking back against the heated leather seat. 

“Steve’s—ah, my— _the_ building.  Whatever,” Tony said, leaning his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Thanks for…you know. This.  The car thing,” Tony clarified, waving his hand in midair. 

“Yeah, this whole being chauffeured around thing is a huge sacrifice,” Steve replied evenly. 

He was playing it off as nothing, which was what Steve tended to do, Tony knew, but Tony had the odd suspicion that Steve had given up on the whole bus stalemate because Tony had gotten cold, and that was…well, he didn’t know what that was.  Just like old times, a voice in his head supplied.  Steve always put Tony first.  Even now, that’s what Steve thought he was doing.  Putting Tony first.  Sacrificing his own happiness, because he thought it was best for Tony.  The dumbass. 

“Calm down there, Mother Theresa.  Not that I wasn’t enjoying the whole public transit thing,” Tony said.    “It was great. Really.  Happy, don’t knock it, I’m telling you.  Sure, I have the sudden urge to compost.  Is that normal?  Should I get a rain barrel?  Too late for an Al Gore bumper sticker?  We need to stop at Whole Foods.  I’m craving granola.”

Tony’s phone buzzed in his pocket.  He pulled it out and looked at the screen, where the photo of a canister of salt appeared. 

“Hang on, its Pepper,” Tony said.

“Why is her picture a thing of salt?” Steve asked with a confused frown.

“Because she’s usually salty with me.  Pay attention, Steven, honestly,” Tony drawled.  “Hey, Pep-in-my-step, how are things back at the ye olde homestead?”

“Fine.  Well, I’m working on the background research for the Board presentation we discussed.  Plenty of graphs, don’t worry.  I’ve already gotten a call from someone at the IRS’s criminal investigations division.  Are you sure—Tony, are you sure that none of this stuff with the judge can lead back to SI?”  she asked. 

“I told you, I looked into all that.  There is nothing, zero, nada, that links this judge guy to SI back when all that went down.  He didn’t join the sub’s Board until after he retired from the bench, and that’s the first contact he has with SI.  If I couldn’t find it, it isn’t there, I’m telling you,” Tony assured her.

“I’m just…I’m worried, Tony,” Pepper said.  Even through the phone, Tony could hear the tight concern in her voice.  “We can’t afford to get tangled up in something like that, not with you wanting to start expanding into new industries.  We just can’t risk the bad press.  We still have the DoD poking around on that weapons shipment that ended up where it shouldn’t be.”

“This is…personal.  The, ah, detoured weapons thing is completely separate. Where’s our internal investigation on that stand, anyway?  That’s taking way too long.  Ask Obie for an update, would you?” Tony asked.  He glanced over at Steve, who was cradling his backpack in his lap and seemingly distracted by the myriad seat options.

“Will do,” Pepper promised.  “Good luck with dinner tonight, by the way.”

“Thanks.  Hey, we’re in the Rolls, so,” Tony told her, gaze darting over to Steve for a flash of a second. 

“I got you a bus pass!  Those are non-refundable, you know,” she protested with a laugh.  “Happy should be pleased.  He was sure you’d be mugged.”

“Happy has no faith in humanity,” Tony said loud enough for Happy to hear.  “Actually, I think it’s just too cold out there for muggers.  New York’s muggers are pansies.  Got to go to Jersey for the real hardcore muggers.  Or, like, a charity wine tasting in the Hamptons. Brutal.”

“Alright, well, I’ll follow up with Mr. Stane and get back to you.  Tell Steve I said hello.  Bye, Tony,” Pepper finished, disconnecting the call.

“Pepper says hi,” Tony repeated to Steve. 

“Detoured weapons?” Steve asked, brows drawing together in confusion.

“Eh, yeah.  Just a stray shipment bound for Incirlik that somehow ended up outside Uruzgan,” Tony explained.  “Marines found it by accident.  On some farm that was a front for moving supplies to the Taliban in Deh Rawood.  Got lost and stopped for directions, can you believe it?”

“Of the Marines, yes,” Steve said,  nodding his head back and forth as if considering.

“We’re looking into it, and cooperating fully, blah, blah, blah,” Tony said.

“That’s…pretty far off course, Turkey to Afganistan,” Steve replied, a furrow forming between his brows. 

“You’d be surprised how much goes missing over there.  Bagram lost a couple of those MRAP counter-measure sets we sent over because the cage was too full and no one wanted to go to the trouble to set up another cage.  Apparently, they just up and walked off on their own.  Stuff happens,” Tony said with a shrug.  “Not that I like it happening to my stuff.  But, that kind of environment, things are going to fall through the cracks.  Just doesn’t get reported, until it’s on us.”

“No one wants to lose a star over some missing inventory, that’s for sure,” Steve agreed.  “Still, that’s a helluva detour.”

“Yeah.  Still.  I know,” Tony acknowledged.  “We’ve got a team looking into it.  Obie, for all he isn’t wild about some of my ideas, knows his way around this kind of thing.  Used to be a prosecutor in Long Island before he met up with Dad.  Smart. Tough.  New York guy.  Ran the East Coast operations for SI until Mom and Dad died, then stepped up when I was a mess.  You’d like him.  He’ll figure it out.  Hey, so enough about that.  What’s on the menu for tonight?” Tony asked with forced brightness.

“Chinese.  Same as last time,” Steve said.  “When you…stopped by.”  Which was as nice a way of putting it as Tony could probably hope for, he supposed.  “It’s cheap and good.  Family who runs it is real nice.  I help around the restaurant sometimes.  Just odds and ends, but with their daughter away at college—she’s crazy smart, like you—they need a hand every now and then.  The grandma, she makes the best dumplings in the city, so. Works out.”

“Sounds delicious.  It was good.  Last time,” Tony said, though he honestly had no memory of what he’d eaten last time or how it had tasted.  Probably best to just sit here and very strenuously not think about Steve being mother-henned by a Chinese grandmother who thought he should eat more.

“You have class tomorrow night, right?  I’m not going,” Tony said, holding up a placating hand at Steve’s look.  “How’s the new computer working out?”

“You mean HAL?” Steve replied, then broke into a smile. 

“You did not,” Tony protested with faux indignation.

“Nat keeps trying to get me to ask it if it wants to play a game,” Steve continued. 

“Well, if anyone could start a global-thermonuclear war from your apartment, it’s Natasha,” Tony admitted with a low chuckle. “What I was going to say, was that I could show you a few more of the features.  If you wanted,” Tony offered.  “But, now that you’ve named my gift after a homicidal A.I., I’ll just let you find your way around the parental controls on your own.”

“Don’t I just hit control, alt, delete and unplug it for ten seconds?” Steve asked.

“No—no, you don’t just hit—you’re messing with me. Again.  Good luck when you can’t get on the Wi-Fi,” Tony grumped.

“I don’t have Wi-Fi,” Steve replied. “Even if I wanted it, the building isn’t wired for it yet.  I think it’s on the list, but there’s something like a six-month wait.  That coffee shop we went to does, though.  Sometimes, I go there.  Or the library.”

“Oh, God,” Tony moaned.  “Oh, God. I’ve stepped through some time portal to 2005.  Why does the ringing in my ears sound like Coldplay?  Should I buy Pepper a shrug sweater?  How will I know I’m a good person without my LiveStrong bracelet?”  Tony groaned and covered his face with his hands.  “No Wi-Fi?  Seriously?”

“It’s not that bad,” Steve protested.  “I’m not even home that much, really.”

“Happy, please make sure you accelerate to exactly 88 miles per hour at the precise moment the lightning strikes the tower,” Tony muttered half under his breath. 

“What’s that, Boss?” Happy called out from the driver’s seat.

“Nothing,” Tony replied, peeking out from between two fingers.  He pulled out his phone and hit redial.  “No Wi-Fi?” Tony demanded by way of greeting.

“Tony, the building is something like a hundred years old.  It was not designed for Ethernet cables.  I’m working on it.  It, and about three dozen other things.  Since last night.  At this point, I’ll sign over my entire shoe collection if Steve will agree to move to the Tower,” Pepper offered.

“Want some Louboutins?” Tony asked, leaning his head towards Steve’s shoulder. 

“Some what?” Steve replied. 

“Steve is unmoved,” Tony told Pepper with a sigh.  “Fine, just…I know you’re doing everything and then some.  Thank you, Ms. Potts.  Add to that collection on me, okay?”

“Go away, Tony, I’m busy.  Your Master of Woo is already at your apartment, FYI,” Pepper responded.  “He says he’s checking to see if he can touch two walls if he stretches his arms out.”

“Rhodey’s at my place,” Tony said to Steve.  “He’s assessing my upgrades.”

“Ask him how many pilots it takes to change a lightbulb,” Steve suggested.  “One.  He just holds it and the world revolves around him.”

“This is not going away any time soon, is it?” Tony asked with a grin.

“Nope,” Steve answered. 

“Steve’s really excited to see Rhodey again,” Tony told Pepper. 

“Sounds like,” Pepper hummed.  “Goodbye, Tony.”

“We’re here, Boss,” Happy informed them.  He angled the car as close to Steve’s building as he could get with the evening traffic and ignored the angry horns while Steve and Tony climbed out. 

“Well, home, sweet, technologically-challenged home,” Tony groused, following Steve up the steps and through the front doors.  Steve stopped long enough to check his mail, which seemed to consist of a flyer for a coupon to a sandwich shop.   “Remember when you double-dog-dared me to hack the Pentagon’s servers?”

“That…is not at all what happened,” Steve objected evenly as they made their way up the stairs.

“No, no, I distinctly remember you daring me,” Tony said in a considering tone.

“I said, ‘Tony, you’re going to get in trouble downloading that much from Napster.’  And you said, ‘Steve, I could hack the Pentagon’s servers and not get caught,’” Steve recounted. 

“I would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for those meddling Feds,” Tony replied.  “Though, your willingness to take the fall for my Weird Al oeuvre still warms my heart.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t get in more trouble for that,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“They didn’t have any real evidence linking me to the Pentagon hack, anyway.  I’d run it through the MIT servers, so they were shooting blanks, but I’d gotten busted poking around old DoD files when I was eleven, trying to help Mulder find his aliens.  But, whatever.  They weren’t even that pissed.  Really, they just wanted to know how I’d done it,” Tony told him.  “Plus, Dad had good lawyers, and it wasn’t like they wanted to advertise some snot-nosed kid got past their firewall.”

“They probably just didn’t believe someone with that many versions of ‘Like a Surgeon’ was capable of hacking their system,” Steve teased.

“You dare to mock the classics,” Tony said in an affronted tone.  “Oh, God,” Tony groaned.  “This is what they meant.  The tie-me-to-the-train-tracks-routine.  This!  This is the kind of shit they meant!  Fuck.  And you, with your, ‘No, ‘twas I, Officer! I did the foul deed!  Take me!’ crap.”

Steve stopped abruptly and turned to face Tony, balancing a foot on the step above him.  “They didn’t have anything on you—you admitted it was you because I told them I was the one downloading the music, didn’t you?”  Steve asked in a rough, thick tone. 

“I—yeah. But, I mean, like I said. No big deal.  It all went away.  No harm, no foul, all that,” Tony replied weakly. 

“Tony,” Steve breathed out. “You shouldn’t have done that.  You—you could’ve gotten in real trouble.”

“Steve, I could’ve gotten in real trouble because I did something highly illegal.  Because I was a stupid kid, and showing off for you a little bit. Maybe,” Tony admitted.  “You really think I’d let you get caught up in all that?  Because of some stunt I pulled?”

“You just—you shouldn’t do stuff like that, is all,” Steve said.  “It’s not worth…”

“Of course, it—you—are worth it!  Jesus, Steve, you’re killing me, here,” Tony blurted out, scraping a hand through his hair.   “How can you think I’ll just up and decide one day that, eh, this amazing guy who, miracle of miracles, adores me, hey, why bother with that?  I’ll just go back to being miserable without him because he doesn’t have a few extra letters after his name and his hand doesn’t work quite right, because I’m a shallow asshole like that.”

“I don’t think--that’s not all there is to it, Tony, and you know it,” Steve said sharply, starting back up the stairs.

“Well, whatever it is, if you think it’s enough to send me packing, you’re insane,” Tony retorted as he hurried to catch up.   “You know---and I know this is going to sound crazy, I know. Bear with me,” Tony said, sucking in a deep breath.  “If we’d stop trying to throw ourselves under the proverbial bus for each other every chance we got and actually talk things through, we might get to, oh, I don’t know, maybe do some more traditional things to show how we feel about each other.  Long walks on the beach, flowers, romantic getaways, chocolate, the absence of debilitating pain and loneliness.  Or is that fifth anniversary stuff?  I can never remember.  I’d Google it, but…no Wi-Fi,” Tony finished throwing up his hands and shrugging.  “You know what I think?” Tony asked between breaths as he followed Steve up the remaining stairs.

“Bet you’re going to tell me,” Steve replied tightly.

“I think you’re full of shit, Steve Rogers,” Tony said.  “I don’t know if you’re lying to me or yourself or both.”

“Thanks,” Steve huffed out without looking back.

“This whole, ‘Tony’s going to leave me,’ bullshit,” Tony continued.  “You’re not afraid I’ll leave.  You’re afraid I won’t. That I’ll stay, and love you _and_ your problems, the same way you love me and all of mine, and then you’ll have to actually start dealing with life again instead of going through the motions.  You can do this to yourself, this half-life you’ve been living, but you can’t do it to me.” 

Tony waited for Steve to contradict him, but Steve just kept trudging up the steps, like if he stopped for even a moment, the words might catch up to him.

“Never had anything in common, my ass,” Tony continued.  “I mean, my ass, yes, literally, but also, loads of other things, because we could always talk.  We talked, and we laughed, and we loved each other so much, so hard, so fiercely, and it was as easy as anything we’ve ever done.  We didn’t even have to try, we just did.  We still do.  Stop me if I’m getting any of this wrong.  No?” Tony queried after a pause punctuated by Steve’s boots stomping on the stairs and Tony’s pants of breath.

“So, here’s what I think,” Tony continued.  “I think you’re going to see if you can push me away before we have to get into all those messy feelings and talkiness. But, you’re so ridiculously _bad_ at the pushing away thing.  Like, truly, deeply terrible at it.  You just can’t help yourself.  Let’s face it, your hobbies include: loving me, making me happy, trying your best to take care of me, finding me adorable, and--stop me if you’ve heard this one—doing the exact opposite of pushing me away despite what occasionally comes out of your mouth.”

“Tony,” Steve cut in, rough and frustrated.  “That’s not what this is.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Tony retorted, aiming the words at Steve’s back.  “Maybe you even believe it, I don’t know.  But, I know this.  I’m not going anywhere.  Not anywhere, Steve.  You got problems.  Okay.  I know.  I mean, I don’t know—know, but…Steve, there is nothing— _nothing_ —that will scare me away.    You try all you need.  You push all you want.” 

“This isn’t a game, Tony,” Steve said in a weary, bleak voice as he reached the fourth floor landing.  “I told you. This is my life, and you’re---I don’t know what you’re doing.  It’s been a day.  A day, Tony.  You don’t know what it’s like…what it’s like…what this is like, day after day after day.”

“You’re right.  I don’t.  I want to, but, right now, yeah, I don’t.  Maybe I am getting in over my head, but I can’t not.  Steve, come on…it’s my life, too,” Tony replied.  “You think all that—that stuff I do, that shit you read in the tabloids, you think that’s my life?  This—this with you, this is my life.  Whatever that means.  However scary whatever it is you’re dealing with is.  Nothing—literally nothing, is scarier than the idea that I don’t get to have this.  Hell, we’ll go to therapy together.  Not like I can’t use it, let’s face it.”

“You don’t know what you’re even talking about,” Steve snapped back, harsh and brutal and full of a desperate kind of pain.  Tony remembered some video he’d seen once of a dog with its leg caught in a trap, ready to bite anyone who tried to help, no matter how much pain it was in.  It couldn’t trust the hand reaching out wasn’t going to somehow be worse than what it knew.

“Would you at least concede that if the situation were reversed, if it was me down at the bottom of the pit, that you wouldn’t be the first to jump in?” Tony pressed.

“Only if I out ran James,” Steve said after a beat, tilting his head with a slightly rueful look. 

“True,” Tony acknowledged, huffing out a laugh.  “But, you’d come.  I know you would.  You’d be there.  Can you…can you let me be there for you?”

“I know you would, Tony.  Doesn’t mean I want you down here with me,” Steve husked out, dropping his gaze to where one hand clutched the stair railing.  “If I loved you...that’s the last place I’d want you to be.”

“Hey…hey, look at me, Steve,” Tony pleaded.  He swallowed thickly when Steve finally did, raising watery eyes to Tony, because Tony had asked him to.  “Not only is there no place I’d rather be, but we are going to crawl our way out of this pit or we’ll make this the best damn pit there ever was.  Either way—either way, Steve, we’re doing it together.  That’s all I’m saying.  Whatever happens here—you, me, us—I’m not leaving.  You hear me?  You’re stuck with me, Rogers.  Now, come on, let’s get up there before Barnes and Nat think I’ve kidnapped you and locked you in my Tower.”

Tony brushed past Steve before Steve could tell him why he was wrong, and walked to his own door, finding it unlocked and Rhodey waiting inside. 

“I have to admit, this is a pretty impressive transformation,” Rhodey said from where he lounged on Tony’s sofa with his feet propped up on the ottoman that doubled as a coffee table.  “Your Wi-Fi’s acting up, though,” he said with a frown at the phone he held in his hand, making Tony roll his eyes.

“You have no idea,” Tony replied.  “Come on, Sourpatch, let’s get this party started.”

“Steve,” Rhodey called out as he stood up.

“Colonel.  Good to see you again,” Steve said from the doorway. 

“James. Come on, man, we’re practically related by marriage,” Rhodey said.  “Which is why you and I need to have a conversation.  Buckle up.”

“Rhodey, now really isn’t a good time for—“ Tony started.

“It’s okay, Tony.  Say your piece, James.  You’ve been itching to since we talked on the phone, so go ahead,” Steve said with an air of resignation.  His shoulders were squared, taut like he was waiting for impact.  Maybe he was, Tony realized. 

“Steve, you got a guy like Tony crazy in love with you, and I’m talking seriously crazy.  Look around you.  Look at this whole back to college experiment, that only a rich, white dude pulling some head over heels, truly desperate, Cinderella-bullshit can come up with, and you gotta think it over?”  Rhodey asked with barbed incredulity.

“Rhodey,” Tony said in a low voice of warning. 

“No, Tony, we’re going to have this out.  Before this goes any further,” Rhodey responded sharply. 

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve said.  “Really.”

“Look, I get that Howard screwed you both over.  Probably you more than Tony, which, I gotta tell you, was probably an unintentional oversight on his part,” Rhodey went on.  “And I know your head has got to be spinning with all this.  But, I had to watch this man try to get over you once, and I’m telling you, I’m not going through that again.  I’m just not.  He doesn’t deserve that.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, James. That’s why I keep trying to tell him—“ Steve broke off, catching Tony’s eye before looking towards his own apartment door.  “Why I keep trying to tell him this isn’t a good idea,” Steve finished with a sigh. 

“Steve.  I’m coming at this as someone who watched what being without you did to him.  You don’t want this?  You want to turn your back on this man that I know—I _know_ \---we both love, and walk away out of some sacrificial bullshit you’ve drummed up in that head of yours, I can’t stop you.  But, do it now.  Do it right now, or give the man a chance.  A real chance, not this chase-me-to-the-bus-stop, playground nonsense,” Rhodey demanded. 

“It’s not—this isn’t an ultimatum,” Tony cut in quickly.  “It’s not, Steve.  Rhodey doesn’t mean that.  He’s just worried.  He’s—he does that.  No one expects you to just up and…I mean, this is all a huge shock, I know.  I know it is.  Everything that’s happened.  All you’ve been through.  I get it, you can’t just up and turn your life on a dime. Rhodey’s just—he’s—he’s--“ Tony stammered.

“I know what James is saying,” Steve responded in a raspy, husked out tone.

“I’m not asking you to make a major life commitment right here and now,” Rhodey replied steadily, holding Steve’s gaze. “I’m saying, take this seriously.  Give the man a chance.  Be open to this as—at least as a possibility.  Something.”

“I’m trying, James,” Steve said.

“Are you?  Really?  ‘Cause I see him chasing you up the steps like that yappy little yeah-Spike-yeah dog from the cartoons, asking you for any kind of handout,” Rhodey replied.  “He’ll take whatever you’re willing to give.  Even scraps, because that’s how he is.  I’m not going to let that happen.  He deserves better.  I don’t think we disagree on that.”

“We don’t,” Steve said flatly, and for the first time, broke eye contact with Rhodey to glance over at Tony, with a soft, glassy gaze.  Tony opened his mouth, then closed it again, realizing he had no idea what to say.

“Steve, he’ll leave,” Rhodey said.  “He’ll walk away.  If that’s what you really want.  It’ll kill him, but he’ll do it. For you.  Because he loves you that much.   So, you either treat this as something real, something that can go somewhere, or you cut him the fuck loose.”

Tony opened his mouth to try again to say something, but he couldn’t get enough air to make anything other than a wheezing breath come out.  He raised his eyes to Steve’s, waiting, hoping, half-terrified Steve would call Rhodey’s bluff.  There were so many different emotions crossing Steve’s face.  Tony could always read him.  Anger, panic, pain, desperation, and a terrible, lurching flash of fear. 

He doesn’t want to be alone, Tony realized, grasping at the insight like a lifeline.  That might be the only thing stronger than Steve’s worry that he’d be some kind of burden to Tony.  He’s kept me with him, all these years, Tony told himself. He won’t let me go now. He won’t. 

_Please._

“Bucky and Nat are expecting us,” Steve said, then turned from the doorway and walked across the hall.  Tony could hear the scrape of Steve’s door opening and the sound of voices meeting Steve in greeting.  Only then did Tony allow his shoulders to sag in relief.  It wasn’t exactly a resoundingly enthusiastic yes, but no had left the not-so-proverbial-building. 

“See?” Rhodey said, stopping in front of Tony with a challenging eyebrow raised.  “Master.  Of.  Woo.”

“Do not ever— _ever_ —do that again,” Tony replied, clutching his chest.  “What if he said no?  What if he just walked away?  Told me to take a hike? What if—“

“Tony, that is not a man who is going to say no.  If he was, you’d have heard it by now.  He strike you as the doesn’t express his opinion well type?  Hell, even Barnes knows Steve wants this.  But, he needed to stop telling himself that he was trying to say no, while letting you keep doing all the heavy lifting,” Rhodey insisted.  “Now, let’s go have some wontons.  Maybe I’ll get sauce this time.”

“Probably not,” Tony pointed out, though there was gratefulness behind his words.  “Don’t worry, I got all the sauce you need.” 

“You had to make it weird,” Rhodey said with a slight shake of his head.  “Come on.  Barnes is probably going to rip me a new one when he finds out about this.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, clapping Rhodey on the shoulder.  “Yeah, he is.  Really took one for Team Happily Ever After there.  Let’s never tell him.”

“Good plan.  You come up with that all on your own?” Rhodey asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with denying and then running away,” Tony argued as they walked out the door.  He pulled it shut and locked it behind him, then walked around the staircase to knock on Steve’s door.  Steve opened it, gave Tony a quick, furtive look, then stepped out of the way so Tony and Rhodey could get by. 

“Dick move, Rhodes,” Barnes called out by way of greeting. 

“No sauce for you,” Tony said under his breath, leaning his head over close to Rhodey’s ear.

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly getting any sauce yet, either, Lothario, so step back,” Rhodey pointed out with a nod towards Steve, who had moved past Natasha into the small kitchen area to open the various take-out containers. 

“Working on it,” Tony argued in a smooth, placating whisper.  “Wow.  Double date with Nat and Barnes….and Rhodey.  Just like old times.”

“That happened like twice, man, don’t start,” Rhodey protested.   

“Uh, we called you Third Wheel for like six months.  To your face.  Tony rolled a tire to your apartment.  With a little sign that said “Third Wheel” on it. With sparkles.  He used glitter glue, for Christ’s sake,” Barnes reminded him.  “Nat had that t-shirt made that said Official Third Wheel.  We went bike riding that time and all chipped in to pay the rental guy an extra fifty to say all he had for you was that big tricyle.”

“It was not a tricycle. It was a three-wheeled bike,” Rhodey said at the same time Tony repeated the same well-worn phrase.  Rhodey shot Tony a disgruntled look. 

“Trying to help you out,” Tony said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Though, technically—“

“It was a three-wheeled—you know, you can all—Fifty bucks?” Rhodey demanded.  “You assholes.”

 “Best money I ever spent,” Tony said, clapping a hand on Rhodey’s shoulder and nudging him forward.  “Thanks for bringing dinner, by the way.  And inviting me.  Or, telling me about it, whatever,” Tony said to Nat and Barnes.  “Anything we can do to help?”

“I got beer sitting on the fire escape,” Barnes replied. 

“Did it…need a time out?” Tony asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

“It’ll stay colder out there than in the ‘fridge,” Steve explained.  Tony looked over at him with a flat, apologetic smile.   Steve caught his eye, then looked down and away, hands going to his hips.  Baby steps. Wooing, Tony reminded himself.

“Oh. Right.  Cold.  Gotcha.  February in New York. Which, hey, that reminds me,” Tony said with forced brightness.  “We—well, I.  I am.  Because we’re not a we.  Yet.  I’m not presuming.   Not that you can’t co-host or—“

“Barbecue on the roof this Saturday.  Tony needs to borrow your George Foreman,” Steve broke in, with a nod towards Barnes.

“Are you insane? It’s like thirty degrees out there!” Barnes protested, only to get one of Natasha’s boots nudging at his calf.  “Which is…great for a barbecue.  ‘Course you can use the grill.   And a clue,” Barnes finished, shooting Nat an innocent look. 

“Okay, so, that’s settled. I’ll invite Thor and Jane.  What about Old McDonald?  That, uh, guy who was in your unit?  With the farm,” Tony recalled.

“Clint,” Steve supplied.  “Sure. We can invite Clint and Laura. Maybe they’d come down?  Be great to see the kids.”

“I’ll ask him,” Natasha offered. 

“And Pepper.  Happy.  It’ll be fun,” Tony said, while everyone continued to give him looks that clearly said they thought this was nuts.  It probably was.  Well, no probably about it.  He looked over at Steve, catching his eye with a whiff of an apologetic grimace.

“It will be fun,” Steve said.  “Maybe we’ll get some snow by then.  Kids could have a snowball fight.”

“Oh, the _kids_?  The kids will be having a snowball fight?  Right.  Uh-huh. Steven Grant Rogers, did those words just come out of your mouth?”  Natasha demanded. 

“Team Army calls the chimney for our base,” Barnes shouted, putting his good hand in the air like he was waiting to be called on.

“Okay, you cannot just call the chimney,” Rhodey objected.  “We’re not five.  We’ll divvy up the available structural cover options when we get up there like the grown men we are.”

“We just figured, being Air Force and all, you’d be miles away from the actual fight, watching it on TV at the Officers’ Club,” Barnes deadpanned, then snickered and fist bumped Steve, who was leaning a hip against the kitchen counter, clearly amused. 

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be?” Rhodey demanded, wiping a hand over his mouth to hide the smile.  Steve and Barnes just looked at each other, then back at Rhodey.

“Um, yeah,” Barnes said.

“Pretty much,” Steve agreed.

“Good grief, someone open a window and let the testosterone out, please,” Natasha requested, slamming a stack of paper plates down on the small table.  “James—my James—grab beers.  Let’s eat.  I’m starving, and you lot will talk less with food in your mouths.”

Steve grabbed a couple of plates and walked over, handing them to Tony and Rhodey, then picked up a beer and sat down on the edge of the twin bed.  Tony glanced up at Rhodey, who nodded encouragingly, then went over and started piling food on his plate.

When he couldn’t fit anymore, Tony grabbed a beer for himself, two forks, a wad of napkins and, somewhat defiantly, a couple packs of soy sauce, then went over and sat down by Steve.  He put the plate on the coffee table near his knee, and twisted the cap off the bottle of beer, holding it out to Steve.  Steve did the same, then clinked his Tony’s, lifting it a bit in salute. 

“Sorry.  Lot to, ah.  Lot to throw at you for one stair climb.  Unless you’re at Hogwarts, I guess,” Tony said, dangling the bottle between his knees by the neck.  “I didn’t put Rhodey up to that, I swear.”

“It’s fine, Tony,” Steve replied.  He sounded distant somehow, even though he was sitting close enough that Tony could feel the warmth radiating from him and had to resist the urge to accidentally-on-purpose shift over enough so that they were touching.  “He was right,” Steve continued, staring towards the kitchen where the others, by some kind of silent agreement, had gathered, chatting too loudly to be natural, trying to give Steve and Tony a slice of privacy. 

“Want to tell me how come I’m sitting here and not headed back to Manhattan, crying on Rhodey’s shoulder?” Tony asked carefully.   Steve was quiet for a long moment, looking down at the bottle of beer he held in his good hand. 

“You know how when your foot falls asleep, you don’t really feel it until you start moving it around?” Steve asked.  He took a drink of the beer, and Tony watched him as he tilted his head back and swallowed, seemingly in no hurry for Tony’s answer.  “I’m exhausted.  Today.  Dealing with you.”

“I—I’m sorry.  I know. I push.  I do, and I tell myself not to.  That I need to back off, and then I—“ Tony rushed out.

“Every day, I sit on that bus.  Back and forth.  I go to work.  I go to class.  I stop by the 99 cent store.  Buck and Nat check up on me.  I do the glass thing, because Sam wouldn’t stop bugging me about it.  This—this is what he meant.  He said I wasn’t connecting.  I kept telling him, I was fine.  Fine, Sam.  Everything’s fine.  And it is.  It’s exactly fine.  Everything is one-hundred percent fine.  Then you come along,” Steve said with a wry twist of his mouth.  “You come along, and everything goes belly up.”

“I really don’t mean to make things harder on you, Steve. I don’t,” Tony said.  He didn’t mean to sound so defeated, but he couldn’t seem to help it.  He’d wanted Steve to talk to him.  He hadn’t really given much thought to what hearing what Steve had to say would feel like.  “That’s the last thing I want to do.”

“I know,” Steve said, reaching out a hand and squeezing Tony’s shoulder, before he let it fall away.  It was one of the few times Steve had voluntarily touched him though, and it took all Tony’s willpower not to try for more. 

“It’s the pinpricks, the tingling when your foot hits the ground.  That’s what you are.  What this is,” Steve continued.  “A part of me wanted to tell you to just go away.  Leave.  Let me…let me go back to sleep.  Let everything be fine again.  I can handle fine.  But…last night and today…it’s the most awake I’ve felt in a long time.  And it hurts.  Not gonna lie, Tony.  It’s hard.  You talk all the time, and you want to solve every, single thing, and that’s…a lot of pressure.  And you…you care.  You care so much, and I—it’s like I’m hard-wired to want to make you happy.  You weren’t wrong. What you said on the stairs.”

“I’ll stop.  The solving thing. I can be wildly unhelpful, you have no idea,” Tony promised with a deprecating grimace.  “I shouldn’t have thrown all that at you.  I didn’t know about Rhodey and what he was going to say.  I wouldn’t have.  If I’d known.”

“No, you—you make me have to see this alternative, this life where things are different, and it’s just…it was easier to not have that, you know?  Easier to just keep on, keep going, keep being fine,” Steve said.  “Sam calls it emotional detachment.  He says we get stuck, and sometimes, try to avoid anything that makes us feel, because feeling things means maybe—maybe we think about things again.  Things that we don’t want to think about. And, sometimes, it takes something big to get us unstuck.”

“Sam sounds like a bright guy.  Believe it or not, I do understand.  Ask Rhodey.  Not the same as you, I know, but…going through the motions.  Isn’t that what they call it?  I don’t know what that means, but that seems right. Going through the motions,” Tony said, looking over at Steve.  “I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t think you do, either.  It’s harder for you, I know.  A lot harder.  I’m going to help.  We’ll get help, whatever help you need.  Therapy, surgery, a tiny Chinese woman to walk on your back, I don’t care, we’ll do it.”

“That doctor guy seemed to think there was a good chance this microsurgery procedure he does could help my hand,” Steve said, holding his hand out in front of him and flexing it into a fist.  It didn’t quite close properly, Tony could see, and shook, ever so slightly, with the effort.  “There’s even a grant for veterans that would cover the cost of the surgery, which is great, because I’m out of tries at the VA.  Doc seemed pretty sure there was a good chance I’d qualify if I applied, so that’s…Tony!” Steve shouted, back straightening as he turned to face Tony with an exasperated frown.

“Tomorrow, cross my heart, I’ll stop solving your problems tomorrow,” Tony said, sitting back and making an exaggerated X over his heart and giving Steve a sheepish look. 

“You did that before you knew about the whole—the whole thing with your Dad,” Steve continued, expression softening.  “Tony,” Steve said, drawing out Tony’s name in the sweet, earnest way Steve could manage that Tony could never quite pull off. 

“I never wanted you hurt.  I should’ve checked on you.  After Germany, I mean.  I should’ve followed up. I should’ve done a lot of things,” Tony replied, glancing down at his hands cradling the neck of the beer. 

“We both made mistakes,” Steve acknowledged. 

“True,” Tony admitted.  “Can we just blame Howard for now, though? I haven’t even had my won-ton.”

“Fair enough,” Steve agreed with a small smile. 

“Here.  Eat,” Tony ordered, handing Steve the plate of food from the coffee table and one of the forks.  Steve took it and dove it with gusto.  Tony picked up the other fork and spun a helping of rice noodles around it.  “Think they’ve been listening?” Tony asked, darting a glance towards the kitchen where the rest of the group was eating and chatting, mostly trading literal war stories from the sound of it.

“Get a room,” Barnes called out without looking up.

“Seems likely,” Steve said with a chuckle. 

“Everyone, please stop helping me,” Tony replied loudly.

“Don’t let him eat the sesame chicken,” Barnes piped in again through a mouthful of noodles.

“What, like I’m an amateur at this? I didn’t even put any on the plate,” Tony shot back, and went back to trying to dodge Steve’s fork.  “I got his bagel in a separate bag this morning. Separate bag, Barnes. I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

“Did you get him jelly?” Barnes asked. 

“Buck—“ Steve started.

“Of course.  Though, it goes against everything I believe in about this world,” Tony said with an exaggerated shake of his head. 

“Fair enough,” Barnes said, seemingly satisfied.   

“So,” Tony said, turning back to Steve and ignoring Barnes’ shit-eating grin. 

“So,” Steve repeated, poking his fork at the plate with disinterest.  “This is…weird.”

“What?  Having a deeply personal, somewhat awkward conversation in front of our friends while they pretend to ignore us and stuff their faces as some kind of distraction so we’ll talk?” Tony asked with a small smile.

“No.  That part’s actually pretty familiar,” Steve said, returning the smile.  “I mean this.  You and me, just sitting here.  I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act around you, to be honest.”

“Just be yourself,” Tony replied.  “That’s all I’m asking for. Just you.”

“Not sure I know how to do that anymore, Tony,” Steve admitted in a low, strained tone. 

“I’m not asking you to be the same person you were when you were nineteen, Steve,” Tony assured him in a soft voice.  “God knows, I’m not the same person I was then.  We should’ve done this whole figuring life out thing together, I know, but we’re here now.  We’re where we are.  I’m not—I’m not talking about ‘fixing you.’  I’m not.  Well, okay, maybe a little.  Your hand and back.  That kind of thing,” Tony said, wobbling his head back and forth in admission.  “I’m talking about you and me.  Us.  One day at a time.  The good days and the tough ones.  I know there will be tough ones, Steve.  I know that.  But, come on, you really think we don’t have a better shot at this if we’re together?  ‘Course, you don’t.  You’re annoyingly stubborn and noble, but you’re not stupid.  So…so, we try this.  Deal?”

“Yeah.  Deal,” Steve said, with a quick, shy smile before he looked away.   “Think I’m getting the better end of this deal, but yeah.”

“Well, my end _is_ pretty nice,” Tony agreed, pretending to look over his shoulder.

“No argument here,” Steve replied, smiling back at Tony.

“Ugh,” Barnes groaned.  “You two are--my idea for solving this still stands, you know.  I mean, we’re all sitting around here being mature adults and talking about feelings and shit, but you know it would work,” he finished, angling his beer bottle at Nat and Rhodey.  “What? It would,” Barnes insisted indignantly when Nat elbowed him.

“James is just glad you two had this time to talk. With…all of us here to dissect it,” Natasha offered.  “Honestly, it makes talking about you behind your backs later so much easier.  Really cuts down on the confusion.”

“Oh my God.  The gift certificate to go ATV-ing for my birthday,” Rhodey burst out suddenly, slamming his hands on the counter and spinning around to face Tony.  “You literally sent me to a place where I could go on an actual three-wheeler.”

“We all loved listening to you totally un-ironically explain how much fun you had. You know. On the next date night,” Natasha said with a smirk. 

“Let it go, Third Wheel,” Tony piped up.

“I hate you all,” Rhodey said, leaning over and putting his head in his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's drag queen name (Fe Male)...Fe is the symbol for Iron on the periodic table, so it is literally Iron Man. I can't take credit for that pun. I'm sure I saw it on tumblr or somewhere, though can't find the post. The Air Force pilot jokes Steve uses are also pulled from various joke websites. I'm not that creative. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading along!


	13. Chapter 13

“That was fast,” Tony observed mildly, glancing up from where the hamburger patties sizzled—well, gave serious consideration to sizzling, anyway---on top of the small, round grill that was plugged into the wall of Tony’s apartment via a long, orange extension cord that screamed safety hazard.  He was considering putting one of those fireplace videos on the TV and waving the patties in front of it, which he thought might have the same effect as Barnes’ precious grill, which had arrived with Barnes, Nat, a container of marinated hamburger meat and a sticky note on top of the grill that just said, ‘Tony, no,’ in Barnes’ familiar scrawl.

Subtlety was not Barnes’ strong suit. 

Neither, apparently, was defeating salmonella, if the temp of his infamous grill was any indication.

“Thanks, man,” Rhodey said as he stuck out a hand to grab the plastic bags filled with hamburger buns and various condiments, paper plates and an industrial-sized bags of chips. One of Steve’s neighbors, or one of Tony’s tenants, depending on how you looked at things, had volunteered to make a run to the store when Pepper realized that Tony’s attempt at grilling lacked some key components.

“When did this turn into a block party, anyway?” Tony asked rhetorically while Rhodey unloaded the bags onto the kitchen counter.   The tenant/neighbor was nonchalantly holding onto another bag with a jar of peanut butter, a container of ramen noodles and what looked like a year’s worth of paprika pressed against the plastic by the bulk of the other items that were stuffed into it.  Well, Tony thought, with a bit of a grin at the young man’s boldness.  At least he knew where his change had gone. 

“I think my sister, she got your message wrong.  Now, I think, maybe you wanted something nice and quiet, with just your friends, after all the banging and hammering and drilling at all hours, but then, as I was shivering in our shower—you know, the one that gets maybe, say, five minutes of hot water before it gives up—I remembered that I don’t care,” the young man responded.  “Oh, and welcome to the building,” he said, saluting Tony with one of Tony’s beers that he’d helped himself to from the ‘fridge.

“I…hate him?” Tony said, looking helplessly between Rhodey and Pepper as the young man disappeared into the hallway, where it seemed the entire building had decided to gather. 

“Emergency plumber is on his way,” Pepper chimed in.  “Happy’s going to meet him and let him into their apartment.”

“I told him he could be building security.  I think he cried a little,” Tony remarked, waving the meat fork in the air.  Tiny reams of steam were drifting out of the edges of the grill.  If he leaned over, he could probably get the boring kind of facial. 

“This thing on?” Rhodey asked with a raised eyebrow.  He picked the handle of the grill up and peeked inside, then shook his head.

“The light’s on,” Tony pointed out, earning a look from Rhodey. 

“You ever actually grill before?” Rhodey asked, looking down at the grill’s display, which was blinking ERR.

“I build missiles.  I think I can figure out---ouch!  Damnit, why is it beeping at me?” Tony said, shoving his stinging finger in his mouth.  “Do not.  Under any circumstances.  Ask Barnes for help.”

“I’d chew through an actual cow first,” Rhodey agreed.

“Well, that’s…incredibly descriptive and unnecessary, but thanks,” Tony said, poking at the buttons until the beeping stopped.

“I can still order delivery,” Pepper offered. 

“And admit defeat?  At the hands of this...late-night TV, drunken impulse-buy gone horribly wrong?  I think not,” Tony announced with a flourish.  “Okay, does anyone smell burning plastic?”

Pepper shook her head and rolled her eyes, going back to laying out leaves of lettuce and slices of tomato on a tray like she was Arcimboldo.  Tony’s idea for a rooftop barbeque had given way to the realities of a New York winter, but was determined to go ahead with something, if for no other reason than it gave him an excuse to see Steve. 

Which…through a Rube Goldberg-esque series of events, somehow led him to a point in his life where he was standing in a tiny Brooklyn apartment, cooking hamburgers over a grill that seemed to run on the equivalent of gerbil-wheel power, while getting berated as a slumlord by some kid who thought premature gray was a good look for him.

“Think these are done?” Tony asked, lifting the lid and poking a long, two-pronged fork into the center of one of the hamburger patties where it sizzled.

“The two in the middle, you could use for hockey pucks,” Rhodey replied.  “I think I heard one of the ones on the edges moo.”

“Don’t mock George. He does his best,” Barnes protested from the doorway.  “Those are way overdone,” the Hamburger Police said, coming to peer over Tony’s shoulder. 

“Steve likes his burnt,” Tony said with a grimace, taking the patties from the center of the grill off and slid them onto the waiting platter that Rhodey held out where they landed with a dubious-sounding thunk.

“I know how Steve likes his burgers,” Barnes replied.

“Can you two argue over Steve’s meat lat—you know what, forget I even started to say anything,” Rhodes cut off, walking over to the fridge and pulling out a beer while Tony and Barnes exchanged snickers of laughter.

“Why didn’t you just let me arrange catering again?” Pepper asked as she pulled the plastic wrap off the stack of paper plates.

“I thought a simpler, less flashy approach was best,” Tony replied.

“He means that he showed up at Steve’s work with the chef from the Brindle Room and two sous chefs pushing carts of food, and nearly got Steve fired until they realized who Tony was and tried to get him to invest,” Barnes explained. 

“Are we investing in pharmaceuticals now?” Pepper asked, arching a brow. 

“Purely recreationally,” Tony quipped.  “Look, it’s not my fault.  I said I’d bring lunch.  Steve agreed.”

“Sandwiches would’ve killed you?” Rhodey asked, shooting Tony a knowing look.

“Possibly,” Tony said, making a face back at Rhodey, then looking dubiously down at the grill. 

“You need to flip those,” Barnes told him, which was true, but Tony instantly didn’t want to do that.  “Steve doesn’t care about all your fancy shit.  He liked the computer because you made it, and he thinks anything you do is basically rocket science.”

“Okay, but, see, a lot of it is actual rocket science,” Tony grumbled.  “Which is why I will not be defeated by some ex-boxer’s glorified heating lamp.  Hand me the spatula.  Back me up, Rhodey.”  Barnes slapped the spatula into Tony’s outstretched hand, then went back to his beer and silent judgment.

“You know it’s killing Tony not to be able to just spoil the hell out of Steve.  Let him have a pass on the lunch thing,” Rhodey suggested evenly.  “How many more do we need?” Rhodey asked with a nod at the grill.

“Let’s see, two each for Steve, Thor and James—“ Tony started.

“You’re forgetting Sam,” Barnes pointed out.

“Well, I’m certainly trying to,” Tony responded agreeably.  “Fine.  Two for the interloper.”

“That’s Mr. Interloper,” Sam called out from the hallway, where he was leaning against the stair railing, holding a beer and what Tony liked to think of as the sad remnants of his completely unrequited crush.  “And I brought Funyuns, which everyone knows are Bro Code for Sorry For Trying to Mack On Your Guy Who Has Been Single For Ten Years, and a twelve pack of Dew, so don’t even start.”

“Okay, but the Dew transforms the Funyuns into Sorry, We’re Gaming All Day and You Have to Be Healer, so…” Rhodey pointed out helpfully. 

“You’re saying Mountain Dew is like those weird Swedish symbols that change the meaning of words from, I don’t know, bear to nuclear waste, and I think that’s a gross misrepresentation of the power of the Dew,” Sam protested, waving his beer bottle in Rhodey’s general direction.

“Please don’t have this argument,” Nat said with a shake of her head.  “Again.”

“Dude, it’s red Mountain Dew.  Everyone knows apology Dew is green or, possibly orange, but red is—“ Rhodey started.

“Judge says: Funyuns, not Cheetos, so it counts as apology food,” Barnes put in, earning a firm nod from Wilson. “Matt, back me up.”

“Those Mountain Dew are literally called Game Fuel, which, I would point out, is not even a real flavor or even descriptive of a taste,” Matt said.  “Smells citrus-y though.”

“See No Evil agrees with me,” Rhodey said happily.

“I don’t care if that twelve pack came with an X-box and a Lara Croft poster, the Funyuns are practically friendship rings, and literally everyone knows that, and I know you know that, because you put one on chain one time and proclaimed it the One Fun Ring, kept calling it your precious, and tried to get Carol to, I don’t know, geek marry you or some shit,” Barnes shot back at Rhodey.  “How did you get her to date you for two years?”

“I thought it was sweet,” Nat put in.  “I mean, it went to a creepy place when you ate it, but right up until then, kind of cute.”

“Your logic is so flawed, I don’t even know where to start,” Rhodey grumbled at Barnes.  “Better flip those,” he said, looking down at the burgers.  “You’re with me, right?”

“I’m pretty sure I still have our Bro Food Decision Tree from sophomore year,” Tony admitted.  “If that wasn’t a worthwhile application of our time and energy as the brightest minds about to shape the century, I don’t know what was.  The One Fun Ring was something of a low point for you, coolness-wise, I’ll give Barnes that much.”

“In my defense, I was very drunk,” Rhodey reminded him, mouth flattening into a grimace. 

“I’ll just be over here totally not judging,” Tony said with a smile.

“Two of your hamburgers for Jane, if you please!  And she will have some of your apology snacks, as well, Sam Wilson,” Thor called out from the hallway.  “She is a woman of great appetites,” Thor finished with a shrug and pleased nod while Jane smiled proudly.

 “And two for Jane,” Tony repeated with a sigh, watching Pepper mouth ‘where?’ while she upended the bag of chips into a bowl on his counter.   “How many for Steve’s dream team out there?” Tony asked, peering out the door into the hallway where a collection of chairs had somehow materialized.  “I can’t believe I’m feeding Steve’s divorce lawyers.”

A circle of people sitting in a mix of folding camp chairs, what looked like a small child’s desk chair complete with a Hello Kitty sticker adoring the back, and a recliner covered in a faded floral velvet on the landing that separated Tony’s apartment from Steve’s place.  Loud voices and the occasional spurts of laughter carried in through the open door.  It seemed the entire building had shown up, including the aforementioned pair of siblings and their list of complaints. 

“Matt and Foggy are friends.  Be nice.  Besides, I think you owe Matt one,” Barnes reminded him.  “Too bad Clint and the fam couldn’t come.  Laura’s great.  Kids are the best.  Clint…doesn’t suck.”

“Steve said you and Nat had your wedding up there,” Tony said.  “He seemed…he seemed to like that.  The whole farm thing.  Said it was nice.”

“Place smelled like horse, but it was free, and Nat was happy.  Laura teaches art at the high school, and she got some of her students to help out.  Few of ‘em even did a little band thing,” Barnes recalled.  “When we got hitched over on base, it was Steve, our CO and the chaplain.  But…we’d had a bad run.  Our unit. Higgins, Watree, Holmes, Williams…then Rollins and Rumlow.  Though, that was their own stupidity,” Barnes recalled with a grimace.  “Anyway, I think Nat just, she got this idea in her head that we needed to quit waiting for the perfect time, you know?  Wasn’t ever going to be perfect.  We were never going to have the money or the time or everyone in one place or whatever it was we were waiting on.  Then…then we’re standing there in the little chapel thing they had on base, and I’m in two-day old briefs because we hadn’t had a chance to do laundry. We got a table at TGIFriday’s for the reception, for Christ’s sake, and Steve can only find what had to be the ugliest ring you’ve ever seen that I’ve got to put on Nat’s finger—with this dolphin and the tiniest diamond you can see without a magnifying glass. Why a dolphin?  We’re in the desert, for fuck’s sake.  But, anyway…I’m standing there, and then Nat’s walking down the little aisle between the chairs, and…it was perfect.”

“Yeah,” Tony said after a beat.  For a second, he could see the judge, sitting behind his desk while he and Steve stood there, bouncing back and forth on their heels, all nerves and love-struck giddiness, while the clerk tried to get the paperwork in order.  Perfect.   “I’m glad.  You two.  You were always good together.”

“You and Steve’ll get there, Tony,” Barnes said, giving Tony a long look. 

“Ah, Mr. Stank, mind if I use your facilities?” the elderly man, who lived on two, asked, drawing a smirk from Barnes. 

“Seriously with the…” Tony began, then jerked his head towards the bathroom.  “Forget it. All yours.”

“No wonder.  He’s been drinking Thor under the table out there.  I have to say, he really is my new favorite person,” Rhodey observed, watching the old man maneuver around the room and close the bathroom door behind him. 

“I take it that name’s not going away anytime soon,” Tony replied.

“Nope,” Barnes and Rhodey announced at the same time with equally pleased grins. 

“Okay, these are done,” Tony said, taking a few more patties off the grill.  “You know, if I had a propane tank or a hose for the gas line…”

“I think my sticky note warned you about bad-touching George,” Barnes replied.

“Tony, seriously, I beg you!” Pepper shouted.  “I haven’t even gotten the building insurance policy yet.”

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Tony quoted, then grinned at Rhodey, who smiled back and nodded approvingly. 

“Nerds,” Barnes coughed into his hand.  “Look, you don’t need to spend a bunch of money or anything, but you need to do something, I don’t know, something to kind of nudge Steve along, you know?  Make a move.  Do your thing.  Go big or go home. Be bold.”

“Be bold?  You have exactly zero ideas, don’t you?” Rhodey asked, narrowing his eyes at Barnes. 

“You just gotta get him thinking more along the lines of the two of you together.  How it would actually work.  That’s all I’m saying,” Barnes replied.  “He’s all,” Barnes began, scrunching his face together.  “Overthinking it, the way Steve does about this stuff.”

“He has exactly zero ideas,” Rhodey repeated, turning to Tony.

“Shut-up,” Barnes groused.  “I got ‘Don’t cause problems at his work.’ How about that for an idea?”

“Technically, they offered Steve the week off with pay while I considered venture capital financing, but I take your point. I’ve got to spend most of tomorrow at the Tower.  Steve has his not-bowl-making class, anyway,” Tony replied.  “I thought about tagging along, but that seems kind of, I don’t know, private or something.”

“Don’t go,” Barnes said quickly.

“That’s what I literally just said,” Tony pointed out, giving Barnes a look.

“Not because you’d be intruding.  Well. Not exactly.  It’s just…its hard.  To watch, I mean.  I went a couple of times, at the beginning, but, man, it’s depressing as hell.  I mean, me, the rest of the vets there, none of us could ever do this stuff.  See something beautiful, the way Stevie could.  ‘Hold up, Buck, I wanna sketch this real quick for later,’” Barnes quoted from memory, shaking his head.  “We didn’t lose anything, see? This glass thing, it’s fun and neat, and we all sit around joshing about the war and complaining about the VA, but Steve…he wants to be good at this so badly.  Like, in his head, he can see it, just like before.  But he can’t get his body to cooperate.”

“Great. That’s…something I’ll now be thinking about all night, thanks,” Tony muttered as he laid a few more hamburger patties on the grill.  “I’ll think of something.”

“Grey Poupon!” Rhodey called out, holding up the small, yellow jar from the bag of assorted condiments.  “I’m putting this in my truck.”

“No one does that anymore.  We may be the only people who even remember that being a thing,” Tony said.  “He kept a jar of that in his beat-up hatchback for years on the off chance someone ever stopped him at a light or something and asked if he had any, for the sheer joy it would give him to say, ‘But, of course,’ and drive away,” Tony explained at Barnes’ curious look.

“Don’t you start on Tootie.  How many times did I tote you and those ‘bots of yours around?”  Rhodey demanded.

“I feel like there’s a learning the facts of life pun that I’m missing here, and it pains me, quite frankly,”  Tony whined.  “Besides, I’m not mocking your hatchback.  I loved that car. Next to Steve, best ride I ever had.”

“See, you had to make it weird,” Rhodey shot back with a grin.  “Anyway, can’t believe no one asked a brother.  And like you have room to talk. You ever get to use your Abe Froman fake ID?” Rhodey asked.  “The Sausage king of Chicago? God, you thought that was hysterical.”

“Don’t make me have to get snooty,” Tony grinned.

“Snooty?” Rhodey asked, crossing his arms, still holding on to the Grey Poupon.

“Snotty,” Tony corrected.

“Snotty?” Rhodey repeated, then burst out laughing. 

“Months of preparation to get that joke set up, but the one time we came close, you fudged the punchline,” Tony reminded him in an accusing whine. 

“Draw the line at calling you devastatingly handsome, Tones,” Rhodey replied.

“Should’ve handed the phone to Steve,” Tony argued with a smile. 

“Steve was still arguing with the manager because you told him you had a reservation for your birthday, and come hell or high water, by God, his boyfriend was going to eat there,” Rhodey reminded him.  “I can’t believe they brought you a cake.”

“Their apology for the, ah, unfortunate loss of my definitely-made reservation was fairly thorough,” Tony recalled with a small smile. 

“Were they always like this?” Pepper asked, cocking her head to the side as she looked back and forth between Tony and Rhodey. 

“Worse,” Barnes confirmed with a roll of his eyes.  “I’m going to check in with Nat and Steve.  Don’t insult George while I’m gone.”

“You mean your little Scentsy warmer here?” Tony said under his breath as Barnes brushed past him.  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’m telling Steve there wasn’t a reservation. He’ll probably write a letter of apology,” Barnes called out over shoulder.

“He’s kidding,” Rhodey said, putting a hand on Tony’s shoulder when Tony started to follow Barnes, spatula still in hand.  Tony shot a disgruntled look at Barnes’ back, but stayed in front of the grill.  He watched Steve appear in his own doorway as Barnes approached, then look up to find Tony with a quick smile of greeting before going back to handing another six pack to Barnes and pointing at the grouping of friends and neighbors trying to adversely possess the fourth floor. 

“Thanks, Mr. Stank,” the elderly man, Stan-something, said with a small wave as he shuffled from the bathroom and headed back to his floral lounger. 

“Shut up,” Tony said to Rhodey, eyes drifting closed in rueful acceptance of the moniker. 

The cookout went well, Tony thought a few hours later while he tied the plastic bands together on the garbage bag and set it outside his door.  Jane had been brimming with information from her conference, and, rather surprisingly, the two lawyers were actually fairly entertaining once you got past the whole divorce thing.  They reminded Tony a bit of him and Rhodey when they were fresh out of school.  Minus the alcoholism, black hole of self-esteem issues and crushing spiral of poor life choices that Tony had been trying to dig his way out from under, but, otherwise, tons of similarities.

“Hey,” Steve said from behind Tony’s back.  He was leaning a shoulder against his doorframe, hands shoved in his pants pockets. 

“Hey, you,” Tony replied with an easy grin as he turned around.  “So. That was fun.  One small kitchen fire, but otherwise, fairly without incident for one of our get-togethers.”

“No one got attacked by a goose,” Steve pointed out.

“Or stuck in a chimney,” Tony added.  “Which was a bit awkward to explain to the fire department, given that it was June.”

“When I close my eyes, I can still hear the squawking.  Try to explain on your enlistment form that your most recent tetanus was due to goose attack,” Rhodey said, coming up behind Tony. 

“Honestly, is that really less embarrassing than having to be pulled out of a chimney because you were playing hide-and-seek?” Tony asked, squinching up his face. “At nineteen.”

“You never would’ve found me if I hadn’t had to pee,” Barnes called out from somewhere over Steve’s shoulder.

“My sweet prince,” Natasha said, cupping her hands by the side of her face.  “Undone by his tiny bladder.”

“Tony’s gift basket of Depends delivered while Nat’s family was in town has not been forgotten,” Barnes said, eyeing Tony with a frown.

“That was from anonymous.  Who…did not know about the whole family visit thing,” Tony replied with an apologetic wobble of his head.

“My Deda thought it was very considerate of James,” Nat said with a small smile.

“I’m headed back to the Tower with Pepper and Happy,” Rhodey said.  “They’re down in the car.”

“Night, Rhode-kill,” Tony grinned, tossing Rhodey a wave.  “Do not let Happy make security badges for my tenants.  I’ll grant you, the building needs some upgrades, but we are not turning this into a demilitarized zone. I know how he loves the 3D printer, but just print out a kidney or something to distract him, would you?”

“He likes the badges.  Give the man his badges,” Rhodey said with a nod, picking up the bag of trash. 

“Mine’s going to say Tony Stank, isn’t it?” Tony asked with a sigh.

“That _is_ what it says on the call box by your apartment,” Rhodey responded with a grin. 

“It does not—it does, doesn’t it?  Damn it. Barnes!” Tony yelled. 

“I’ll drop this in the alley.  Night everyone,” Rhodey said with a nod.  A murmur of goodnights followed him down the stairs.

“We’re heading out, too. Be good, boys,” Nat said, squeezing past where Steve leaned in the doorway.  “Honey, it was just George’s time.  Let it go.”

“I blame Tony,” Barnes said as Steve stepped out into the hallway to let him pass.  He was holding his George Foreman grill, or what was left of it, under one hand.   “Why you gotta mess with everything?”

“I do not ‘mess’ with things,” Tony retorted.  “I may, occasionally, use my talents to—“

“My phone,” Barnes broke in.

“That was an upgrade,” Tony objected.  “Not my fault your phone was shit.”

“My mom’s car,” Barnes continued.

“Technically, when I was done, you couldn’t hear the noise anymore,” Tony reminded him. 

“Nat’s…massager,” Barnes added, shooting a surreptitious look at Nat.

“I…did not know what that was, and I’m sorry I ever opened that drawer that I do not know about,” Tony replied. 

“I didn’t mind,” Nat said with a small shrug.

“Someone cover Steve’s ears,” Barnes said, hunching over to get a better grip on his grill. 

“I needed something relatively small that vibrated on a low frequency,” Tony explained with an apologetic glance at Nat.

“Hey!” Barnes said, scrunching his face back in affront.

“I said ‘relatively small,’ calm down.  Size isn’t everything,” Tony replied with a sagely smug nod.

“Takes a long time to get to England in a rowboat, though,” Steve put in, making Tony have to cover his mouth to keep from probably getting into a literal dick measuring contest with Barnes. 

“You three are ridiculous,” Nat put in.  “Can we go?”

 “Nat and I can get across the pond multiple times.  _Multiple_ times,” Barnes insisted, pointing a finger at Tony.

“I’ll bet you can,” Steve said in a reassuring tone.  “You got a cab?” he asked Nat.

“Should be pulling up any minute now,” Nat told him.  “Come on, you,” she said, tugging at Barnes’ sleeve.  “Home.  Bed. To sleep,” she clarified at Barnes’ eager puppy look.

“Aww.  You sunk his battleship,” Tony said with mock sadness, tossing a small wave at Barnes, who frowned in return.

“Your husband killed my grill and insulted my manhood,” Barnes pointed out, looking over his shoulder at Steve, who smiled back.  “I always liked him.  Well. Not when I hated him, but you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Steve replied.  “’Night guys.  See you soon,” Steve said, watching the two of them round the stairs and head down.  “You’re going to be getting Christmas cards from him addressed to Tony Stank for years. You know that, right?”

“Well, I always liked him, too,” Tony said with a shrug.  “Thanks for coming!” he shouted down the stairs. “Or, in Barnes’ case, sounds like not, but whatever,” Tony shouted, leaning over the railing.  “Row harder, good Sir!”

“Tony didn’t have a reservation for his birthday at that restaurant!” Barnes yelled back, earning a hard tug on the shoulder of his jacket from Nat.

“Ignore him.  He’s very drunk,” Tony said before Steve could ask.  “Was he possibly dropped on his head a lot as a child?”

“Says he wasn’t, but isn’t that something someone who was dropped on his head a lot as a child would say?” Steve asked, scrunching his face up like he was considering the proposition while Tony smiled in return.  “I had a good time tonight, Tony. Thank you.  I know it wasn’t exactly your speed.”

“My speed, as you put it, is your speed, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Tony replied, edging closer to Steve.  “I had fun, too, you know.  Always did.  You and me and whatever…stragglers you’d bring home.  It was always, I don’t know…just always felt like I couldn’t wait to see what would happen next, you know?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I know,” Steve said, giving Tony a soft glance that made the corners of his eyes slant. 

“You want to come over for a bit?  Hang out?  I know, it’s late and all,” Tony rushed out.

“I’d love to,” Steve said.

“Yeah?”  Tony replied in surprise.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. 

“Grab your laptop. I’ll give you the nickel tour,” Tony offered.  Steve ducked back inside his apartment and came back with the computer clutched to his chest.  Tony ushered him into his apartment and quickly cleared space on the futon for Steve to sit.  “Here,” Tony said, patting the now empty spot next to him.  “Boot HAL up, and let’s see what we have.”

Steve had already mastered the basics of the speech to text dictation software, which largely ran itself once you clicked it on.  Tony walked him through a few other features, like the auto-click, and helped set up some shortcuts to reduce Steve’s need to use the touchpad or mouse.  He also set up the predictive assessment tool, which would learn from Steve’s patterns and searches and further help reduce the need for typing or touchpad use, talking through what he was doing while Steve listened attentively. 

He always liked having Steve’s focus, whether it was something like this or the intensity of trying to still himself long enough for Steve to get a sketch down.  There was something about being the singular object of Steve’s attention that made Tony feel more alive than he had in years, living within each heartbeat of the moment in a way that the constant drag of the day usually didn’t allow.  With Steve, he slowed down somehow, drew inward, and everything was just suddenly more present than it had been before.  Or, maybe he was more present, Tony wasn’t sure. 

“So, that’s it, basically,” Tony finished, adding the last hotkey that would power down the laptop. “I’ll send the list of shortcuts to your phone, so you’ll have that to look at until you get used to them.  Try to use those where you can.  I’ve got some other ideas.  Actually, been doing a bit of research on this, and while there are obvious applications for injured soldiers, there are lots of people who suffer varying degrees of nerve damage in their hands and arms.  I’m going to see about integrating some of this with the next upgrade for the StarkPhone.  Which reminds me, I need to get you a prototype sent over.”

“This is great. Thanks, Tony.  Really.  This is…all of this.  Tonight, and the lunch---I know I seemed---I should have just--I don’t know. It was nice.  It was,” Steve insisted when Tony pulled a face.

“I shouldn’t have made a big deal, not at your work.  I mean, at your home and your school, fine, but we should probably talk about limits,” Tony said with a nervous laugh. “God, I’m terrible at this.  I’m sorry.  I’m…I’m worried that I’m going lose you again, and I start panicking. Which, as we know, leads to incredibly good and well thought out decision-making.”

“It wasn’t--it wasn’t you.  Not really.  I just…I didn’t know how to deal with you…being you,” Steve admitted after a short pause while the computer finished installing its upgrades and faded to black.  “The CEO was there, and you were talking about all that investment stuff, and I was…holding a mop.  I’m not embarrassed by what I do,” Steve said quickly, then dropped his gaze to where the laptop screen was cycling through the various updates.  “I guess, I’m worried maybe you are.”

“I didn’t...I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” Tony said carefully, gaze watching Steve’s hunched shoulders and the drawn, tight line of his jaw.  Tony scrubbed a hand over his mouth, flattening his lips together and glancing heavenward for support or guidance, he wasn’t sure.  “Damn.  Dammit, I should’ve thought…I got ahead of myself, and I wanted to, I don’t know, show off, I guess.  I wanted…I wanted them to know you were special.  Pepper called over, you know, to tell them what to expect. She does things like that. Thinks of things.  They didn’t even know who you were.  Had to look you up in some directory, and I just…I thought, that’s—I can’t have that.  Them not knowing.  It was stupid,” Tony admitted harshly.  “It was stupid, I know.”

“Tony…” Steve started, then let the word hang there between them.  “It wasn’t stupid.”

“I’m sorry.  Really,” Tony reiterated.  “The whole thing, I shouldn’t have dicked around, not at your job, but all I could think about was those snot-nosed kids at MIT who handed you their trays without even seeing you, and it just—it killed me to see that, but I didn’t do anything about it then.  I don’t know why.  I should’ve said something.  Done something.  I always regretted that.  I can still see it in my head.  Me, sitting there, not doing anything.  I just…this time.  I wanted it to be different. _I_ wanted to be different.”

“It’s just how people are, Tony.  They don’t mean anything by it,” Steve replied. 

“Jeff, he has three kids.  Laura, Benjamin and Toby.  Wife’s Donna.  Jeff’s from Philly, originally.  Loves the Eagles.  Benji wants to play football, but he’s got asthma.  Donna makes him cheesesteaks sometimes, and he tells here they’re just like back home, but they’re not.  He tells her that, though,” Tony said with a slight nod.  “He does floors thirty through forty at the Tower, Monday through Friday.  I have gotten better, Steve.  I have.  It took a while, but I got better.  Not going to say I wasn’t embarrassed.  Before.  If you’d asked me then, I’d have said no.  No classism, no way, not me.  I got my hacky sack and Bob Marley poster to prove it.  But, I didn’t exactly have you over to the country club, did I?” Tony asked with a grimace.  He wiped a hand over his mouth and let his head dip down to his chest for a moment.  “I didn’t mean anything by it.  Me.  I was one of those people who didn’t mean anything by it.  I’m saying, I’m not that person now.  And you are the furthest thing from an embarrassment to me.  I mean that, Steve.”

“I know.  I know you do, Tony,” Steve said, turning on the sofa to look long and hard at Tony.  “So, how is this…” Steve started, then let out a sigh and leaned back against the sofa, tipping his head back and staring at the room for a long moment.  “How do you see this going?  You and me.  Say we…say we do this.  What happens?”

“Guess that’s up to you,” Tony replied, twisting his head around to meet Steve’s gaze.  Steve was rubbing his fist against his thigh, digging in, in what Tony had come to recognize was a nervous gesture, but one Steve used when he was girding himself for whatever it was he wanted to say.  “There’s always good, old-fashioned dating.  I hear that’s still a thing.”

“Dating,” Steve repeated slowly, stretching the word out.

“Yeah, I know. We’re a bit beyond that, I’ll freely admit, but it isn’t like it would be a bad thing.  Taking it slow,” Tony pointed out.  He sucked in a breath and bit his lip, but Steve kept silent.  “I was serious about the therapy thing.  You and me. We go talk to someone.  Counseling.  Dream journals.  Trust exercises. Towers of furniture.  Whatever it takes.”

“Fall back, and I’ll catch you, huh?” Steve said, giving Tony a sharp look.

“Fall back, and I _will_ catch you,” Tony replied evenly, holding Steve’s gaze.  “That’s how this works.” He let that hang there for a moment, then pushed himself off the sofa.  Slow.  Wooing.  God, this was hard.  “You have your glass thing tomorrow, and I have to get ready for the Board presentation, so I won’t be around much during the day.  Dinner?  Your place?  Something simple. Cooked on something that maybe doesn’t have to be plugged in?” Tony offered.

“Sounds good.  Sounds real good, Tony,” Steve agreed, standing up and starting for the door, which was still open into the small hallway between their apartments.  “Thanks for taking care of those kids from 2B.  I know the brother’s a little, ah.  Prickly.  But, they’re good people.  And the temp’s going to really drop tonight, so they’ll be glad for the hot water.” 

“Kids?  They’re like ten years younger than us.  I don’t know how I ended up adopting a building,” Tony said, shaking his head dolefully.  “Oh, God, I’m going to have to pay for their college, aren’t I?  Stan, his hip pains him when the temperature drops.  And he really wants Wi-Fi so he can talk to his old war buddies.  Shit.  How did this happen?”

“Stan takes hip-hop classes three times a week and wants Wi-Fi because he got kicked out of every library and senior center in Brooklyn for downloading porn from a website called Thick Chocolate Goddesses,” Steve informed him.  “I know, because he used my apartment number for the subscription, and that’s how I ended up uninivited to Sam’s mom’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I knew I liked Stan,” Tony remarked with a huff of a laugh, looking up at Steve, who was hovering between the sofa and the door, like he wasn’t quite ready to go.  He stood up and walked the few steps to his small kitchen, before lifting his gaze back to Steve.  Watching Steve walk out was not high on the list of images he liked to have, but, well. Woo.  Slow.  All that jazz.  “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night, Tony,” Steve replied, raising a hand in a half-wave. He stopped, just at his door, and turned around to Tony.  “I do love you.  You know that, right?”

“I do.  Not going to turn down hearing it, though,” Tony said softly, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels while he bit his lip. 

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Steve answered with a slight smile. 

Tony watched him walk into his apartment and pull the door shut behind him, then closed his own door with a soft snick.  He leaned his forehead against the freshly-painted wood and breathed in and out.  It was going to be okay.  They were going to work this out.  Maybe not instantly, not with the big, sweeping kiss the way Tony had wanted it that night he found out about what Howard had done, but something forged from stronger stuff.  Not many people got a chance at a do-over.  He wasn’t going to screw this up.

The knock at the door nearly sent Tony reeling backwards into the coffee table in surprise. 

“Jesus,” Tony said shakily.  He regained his footing and told his heart to stop trying to clamor out of his chest, and opened the door to find Steve standing there, shifting back and forth on his feet, one hand braced against the doorjamb, where he was picking at the woodwork with his nail.

“I forgot something,” Steve said by way of explanation, then moved forward into Tony’s space. His hands came up to cradle the sides of Tony’s head with a gentle, but firm, pressure that made Tony want to sink into it.  Like coming back home and pushing your toes into the carpet.  The sensation was familiar and new at the same time. 

The first brush of Steve’s lips was soft, feather-light, the barest of strokes against Tony’s mouth.  Then more pressure, insistent, seeking, moving his mouth across Tony’s.  Tony canted his head to the side in Steve’s hands, letting the weight shift to Steve, and brought his arms up to claw into Steve’s shirt, drawing him closer.  Steve’s hand wound its way down the back of Tony’s neck, threading fingers through the hairs at his nape with gentle, but insistent pressure.  Steve’s tongue traced the seam of Tony’s lips, nudging them to part, plunging deeper into the wet heat of Tony’s mouth when they did. 

It was fireworks, bursting in Tony’s chest, a molten coil straight down to his groin.  It was slow-dancing on the roof without any music, the languid wake of morning when the bed is still warm, the first rise over the top of the coaster when the clacks just start picking up speed, the last piece of an equation after the equal sign, the eureka moment when something worked, the way the sun breaks across the sky when you’ve stayed up all night to wait for dawn. 

How could he have thought anything else in the world would ever come close to this? 

When they finally broke apart, Tony was panting, Steve’s shirt still knotted in his fists.  Steve’s face was flushed, and his eyes were bright, wide points of dark blue.  It was a bit like looking at the sun, Tony thought dazedly.

“Feel free to play Dory all you want,” Tony said with a shaky breath.  “The forgetting.  Fish.  The fish, it’s a—you know, just, ah, saying basically carte blanche for the kissing thing. Is all. With the fish.  Shutting up now.  But. Well, yeah.” Steve smiled in response, almost shyly, then retreated backwards, moving to the hallway. 

“G’night, Tony,” Steve said again, though his voice sounded rather slurred.  He darted a glance over at Tony, and nearly ran into one of the chairs still left outside his door from the party. 

Tony grinned, taking his lower lip in his teeth to keep from laughing.  Partly from Steve’s sudden lack of coordination, partly from relief, joy, arousal, whatever it was that was currently dancing around in his stomach and making him light-headed. 

The next day was largely spent working with Pepper and Rhodey on the clean energy presentation for the Board.  He met with Obie when they were all done, going through a dry run of the Board presentation, complete with Pepper’s CFO-jack-off graphs and Rhodey’s notes from his Corps buddy.  Tony thought it went well, though Obie was largely noncommittal and simply thanked Tony for the head’s up and promised to think on it.  Tony supposed outright capitulation and enthusiasm was too much to hope for, given Obie’s entrenchment with the idea of keeping the bulk of SI’s resources dedicated to weapons.  It wasn’t that Tony didn’t understand. The military industrial complex was the business Obie had lived and breathed for decades.  Shifting away from that…it would be hard on anyone.

He’d like to have Obie’s support, of course, for a lot of reasons.  The man had been his guiding hand after Tony’s parents died.  But, as Steve said, it wasn’t crucial, not if Tony could convince the rest of the Board of the viability of this idea. Not just that it would work on a technical level, which it would, obviously, being his idea.  That it could turn a profit, too. Which was where Pepper and her graphs and Rhodey and his Army Corps of Engineers contact came in.  Or, so he hoped.

By the time Happy dropped him off in front of their—he’d just decided to go with their at this point—building, Tony was exhausted.  Exhausted and…freezing.  Fuck, it was cold, he hummed to himself as he took the front steps and pushed open the building’s front door. 

It wasn’t much warmer inside the building.  The lone radiator that was tucked against the vestibule’s far wall couldn’t do much against the onslaught of low pressure driving the temperature past freezing.  Not to mention that the building was insulated with, what, good thoughts?  Who knew?  He was going to have to gut the whole place.  Probably could put the residents up in the Tower while they got the building into some kind of habitable condition. 

Oh, God, he thought, jolting to a halt.  He really was adopting Steve’s neighbors.  _Fuck_.

Tony shook his head ruefully, though, not without some strange sense of anticipation, then trudged up the stairs, leaving melting footprints in his wake.  He rounded the fourth floor railing, walking over to Steve’s sad little doormat and pounding on the door next to Steve’s carefully sharpied unit number until Steve jerked it open, leaving Tony’s fist hanging mid-motion.

“I’m not adopting your building.  I mean, I might be, but I’m resentful about it?  Maybe.  I don’t know,” Tony said, brushing past Steve into the warmth of the small apartment where the radiator hissed against a corner.  “Bad Grandpa’s not too bad.  Kids are okay, I guess. Wouldn’t want to run into them while riding my bike down the hall of a pseudo-Victorian hotel, but, they seem decent,” Tony said with a shrug.  “Dinner’s coming, by the way.  Should be here shortly.” 

“Stan’s going to love the wi-fi when you get it installed,” Steve said.  He raised his eyebrows, then huffed out a laugh, and walked over to the small kitchen, leaning a hip against the counter.  “Wanda and Pietro…I know he takes a bit to get used to, but they’re trying.  They came here with barely the clothes on their backs, and now, Wanda’s working her way through music school, and Pietro…he’s a bike courier during the day, but goes to nursing school at night.  You’re doing good here, Tony.  Really.  These little things…they mean a lot to people.”  

Tony blinked at Steve, then rolled his eyes, flopped down onto the loveseat and pushed his hands through his hair.  “God, don’t name them.  Then, they’ll belong to us. I’m going to have feelings, and it’s all your fault.”

“The Mr. Softee shirt was not because of your love of ice cream,” Steve reminded him, earning a slight shake of Tony’s head in return.  “What’s for dinner?”

“Something simple,” Tony promised. “Simple, as in, I let Pepper handle it, and no former boxing champions were harmed.”

It turned out that Le Bernadin will deliver if your last name is on the side of a giant tower in the middle of Manhattan.  Bless Pepper, Tony thought as they wheeled trays of food inside. Steve’s phone buzzed while the table and dishes were being set up, which was a feat in and of itself in Steve’s tiny apartment, though none of the servers commented on the strangeness of it all, and Tony shoved a wad of cash at them before they left. 

“No, no, he’s, ah. He’s right here, actually,” Steve was saying.  He mouthed ‘Bucky’ at Tony.   “Well, either I’m being kidnapped or we’re having dinner.  Either way, send help,” Steve said with a low chuckle.

“Remind him that we talked about this, and it’s my weekend with you, so if he wants more time, he’s going to have to renegotiate,” Tony quipped, rolling his eyes and dropping the black cloth napkin into his lap.

“Yeah, it’s good.  Tell Nat hi for me, okay?”  Steve finished, disconnecting the call and turning back to Tony and the small table, covered in a white tablecloth, with silver-domes covering their dinner and a red rose in a small vase in the center. 

“Simple, huh?” Steve asked, sitting down on one of the damask-draped chairs that had been set up along with their meal.

 “Lot simpler than cooking burgers with the equivalent of a Bic lighter and harsh language. How was the glass thing?” Tony asked when Steve sat down on the covered folding chair opposite him.

“Good.  I made a vase,” Steve said, pointing over at one of the shelves where a line of Not Bowls stood, with the new addition of a fiery red vase with small dewdrops of gold sliding down the side. 

“Nice,” Tony said admiringly.  He found he meant it, a bit to his surprise.  He could see some of the progression of Steve’s efforts as he learned, and this latest one had something the others were trying for, but not quite managing.  “Like the colors.  Little bit of hot rod about that red.  Speaking of, you should let me take you for a drive sometime.  Upstate, maybe.  Get out of the city.  I’ve got a place in the Hamptons.  We could go there for a weekend or something.”

“You ever make it back to Boston?” Steve asked, which wasn’t a no, so Tony decided to let it slide.

“Sometimes.  Got a, ah.  Condo.  There. By the campus. Sort of a condo, anyway.  I’ve given a couple of speeches at MIT.  They let you do that when you donate enough.  Like getting those holiday address labels the guilt charities send you,” Tony explained.

“You’ve given the distinguished lecturer speeches for the past four years, and you did the Miller Lecture Series last year, too,” Steve pointed out.

“If you know the answer, why ask the question?” Tony said, taking a bite of the halibut.  “You kept tabs. That’s nice.  Makes my stalking seem less creepy somehow.  Eat your steak,” Tony instructed.  “I had them hold the wasabi pea puree. You’d have thought I’d asked them to include some chicken nuggets and a toy.  You ever get back there?”

“Boston? Not really.  Haven’t wanted to since.  Well.  You know,” Steve said, looking down at his plate for a moment before he regrouped and looked back up at Tony.  “Be neat to go back. See the old haunts, that kind of thing.  You think our apartment’s still there?  Probably not, huh?”

“About that,” Tony began, leaning forward so his forearms were braced against the table while he dangled his fork over his plate. 

“Wait. Condo.  You—did you buy our apartment?” Steve asked, drawing back in his chair to look at Tony with an air of disbelieving fondess. 

“They were turning the whole thing into one of those wonderfully modern condominiums with plumbing that worked and cable TV you didn’t have to steal from the pub down the block.  Gentrification is a bitch,” Tony muttered.  “I couldn’t let that happen.”

“You bought our apartment,” Steve said in a wonder-filled voice. 

“I couldn’t…even then, I couldn’t let that go.  That was the place I’d been the happiest in my whole misbegotten life, and even if it was all a lie, I still couldn’t—they were putting in granite!  Granite, Steve. Can you imagine? Mass hysteria, I’m telling you,” Tony groused, looking down at his plate and feeling a bit abashed about the whole thing.

“You’re a romantic sap, Anthony Stark,” Steve said, sounding pleased at the idea. 

“Wood floors,” Tony added.  “An HOA.”

“That evil had to be stopped,” Steve said mildly, smiling across the table at Tony in a warm, gentle way that made Tony’s stomach go liquid and started a fluttering in his chest. 

“Shut-up. You and your little Pandora’s box over there are one to talk,” Tony groused, pointing a fork in the general direction of Steve’s mismatched bookcases.  “We both suck at moving on, let’s face it.  Jarvis…you remember him?  Older guy, British accent.  Looked like he wanted to clean everything while quoting Monty Python,” Tony said, easing back in his chair. 

“Sure.  He stopped by that time when you won the Lemelson prize for Dum-E.  And he… came with you for the…the thing,” Steve recalled, looking down and away and darting his bad hand down to his lap where Tony was sure he was rubbing it over his thigh.  “You said you thought he messed this up on purpose.”

“Having a notary around the house was helpful when you run a multinational company and have to occasionally sign important papers,” Tony explained.  “He’d been a notary for years. Decades, maybe, I don’t know.  No way he screws that up by accident.”

“Why would he do that, though?  Do you think he knew what your father had done?” Steve questioned. The furrow was back between his brow, like some Pavlovian response to a discussion that involved Howard.

“I don’t think he knew exactly what happened, no,” Tony said.  “He’d have said something.  But, I think he knew something was off.  Probably figured we’d have to correct the snafu a lot sooner.  Have to talk.  Assumed we’d get our heads out of asses once a bit of time had passed.  Who knows?  Can’t ask.  He died with mom and dad in the accident.  Crash report says he was driving, going too fast. Roads were slick with rain.”

“You don’t buy it?” Steve asked in a carefully measured tone. 

“Dad always drove when it was him and mom in the car.  Always.  Even when he’d had too much…even when he shouldn’t.  Made Jarvis nuts,” Tony replied. 

“I’m sorry.  About what happened.  I should’ve, I don’t know.  Come to see you or something,” Steve said. 

“I wouldn’t have talked to you.  Or, worse, I would have, and said a few choice things that didn’t need to be said.  That I didn’t mean,” Tony admitted.  “Plus, not like you didn’t have your reason for staying, what? 500 feet away?  God, I didn’t think even Howard could be that big of a bastard, but there you go, Pops.  Always exceeding my expectations.”

“I should’ve come,” Steve said stubbornly.  “Forget that paper thing.  They were your parents. If you needed to yell at someone, least I could do was let it be me.  Maybe we coulda sorted this out back then.  Then I could’ve been there. When you needed me.”

Tony blinked back the sudden, stinging heat in the corners of his eyes and set his fork down with a sigh. 

“Need you now.  Every day.  I need you.  You have no idea…even this thing with Obie and the Board, it’s just easier when you’re with me.  I don’t know.  Nothing seems so insurmountable, I suppose.  Maybe because, in the end, I still have you.  So, whatever happens, it isn’t the worst thing.  It isn’t everything, you know what I mean?” Tony asked softly, canting his head at an angle while he watched Steve.

“Yeah.  I do,” Steve acknowledged, giving Tony that soft, tender look that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Tony’s stomach swoop down to somewhere in the Carolinas.  “You never talked much about your mom.”

“Not much to say.  She married my Dad young.  Had me.  Hired a series of nannies.  That was pretty much my interaction with her,” Tony replied.  “She was beautiful,” Tony recalled, sparing a glance towards the ceiling.  “She played piano.  I’d sit by her sometimes and listen.  She was good.  Not concert pianist good, but good.  Music was one of the few things I think she truly enjoyed about life.  Parenting, not so much.”

“Is that why you play?” Steve asked.  “Because she did?”

“Maybe.  Probably.  I don’t know,” Tony responded.  He picked up his fork again and started back in on the fish and mushroom casserole. 

“I’d like to hear you play sometime,” Steve said, giving Tony a sheepish look. 

“I’d like that,” Tony said softly.  “I’d really like that.”

“Think you’d want kids?” Steve asked around a bite of filet mignon.

Tony choked on the fish and started coughing, reaching for the glass of water and downing a long drink. 

“Jesus, Steve.  A little lead-in would be nice.  Maybe lay some groundwork,” Tony protested weakly. 

“I was thinking we never really talked about that.  Back then,” Steve continued. 

“Do you want kids?” Tony asked, trying to keep the panicked surprise out of his voice.  Did he want kids?  The idea had been so far off his radar, he hadn’t given it more than a passing thought in years.  Well.  Probably at least a decade. 

“I don’t know,” Steve replied.

“I don’t know, either,” Tony said.

“Glad we cleared that up,” Steve smirked, and went back to eating. 

“That’s it?” Tony spluttered after a moment of expectant silence.  “Just bust out the kid card and then back to the second course?  What part of taking this slow did you—God, we would be such cool dads, though.”

“Damn right,” Steve agreed, going back to stabbing at his steak with a vengeance.  “I’m just…we were never on the same page.  Before.  I think, maybe—maybe that was one of the reasons we fell apart so easily.”

“We fell apart because my old man was a dick who liked to see me suffer,” Tony retorted grimly.

“Tony.  I think you know that wasn’t all of it.  He couldn’t have done what he did to us if our relationship had been half as strong as how we felt,” Steve pointed out.  “Being in love with you, that’s the easy part.  Always was.  But us—us together, I mean.  We gotta be on the same page from the get-go.  I can’t…all that.  I can’t do that again.  And if we go at this the wrong way, or to make up for something we missed, then we’re just going to end up making each other miserable.”

“No—no, you’re right.  You are.  God, I mean, I want it to all be Howard’s fault, because I can just keep on hating him and leave the side of self-loathing out of it, but—okay. Okay, look, so…,” Tony stopped and cleared his throat.  “I haven’t thought about kids.  I’m…open to it.  I’m selfish enough to want you to myself for a while, but…kids.  Not hating the thought.”

“I’d like at least one,” Steve told him, which made Tony’s gut clench and the fish stick to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth, but he thought he kept a pretty good game face.  “Money.”

“It’s frowned on to just buy them, Steve,” Tony teased.

“Tony,” Steve laughed in exasperation.

“Right.  Money.  I, ah.  Kind of have plenty,” Tony said, latching on to the topic change. 

“I know that,” Steve said with a huff of a laugh.  “But, it’s your money, Tony.  I’m not exactly bringing a lot to the table.”

“You’re bringing everything I need,” Tony replied, dropping his gaze down to his plate while his stomach went sour on him.  “So just, stop worrying about it, okay?  I don’t care.  If you care, I’ll give you half, and you can be rich, too.  See?  Problem solved.”

“That’s…it isn’t like I don’t appreciate the sentiment, Tony.  I do.  I know you mean it.  But…money was what came between us before,” Steve reminded him.  “We’re not talking a minor difference in assets here.  What about a pre-nup?”

“No,” Tony said quickly, wiping his napkin over his mouth and tossing it on the table.  “I’m not doing the whole divorce sign-up sheet.  Forget it.”

“It isn’t a divorce sign-up sheet. It’s to protect you, your company, everything that you’ve worked for,” Steve argued.

“No,” Tony insisted.  “I’m not—I can’t.  I can’t, Steve. It’d be like he was right.  He—Howard, he got you to sign that stupid paper, and I can’t do that.  So.  Just, no.  No. Okay?  Drop it.”

“Okay,” Steve said after a beat of silence.  Tony could feel the corner of his eye twitching and a headache coming on from the base of his skull, and all he wanted to do was pull the emergency exit, but he sipped his water and waited. 

“I’m still Catholic,” Steve told him. 

“As long as I can still laugh at the Church Lady,” Tony quipped with a burst of relief.  “Kids, money, religion…” Tony reeled off.  “Guess that leaves sex.”

“I seem to recall we figured that out pretty well, eventually,” Steve said, biting his lip between his teeth to hold back a grin. 

“Well, we had a strong belief that the key to success was practice,” Tony teased.  “But, I actually meant—while we’re being adults here.  I know you said you didn’t hold any of my, ah, experience?  Experience, against me, which, you know, great and all.  A lot of it was shit the press made up, anyway.  You get photographed with someone and suddenly you’re in some torrid affair.  Half of it was just made up to sell magazines.  Half of it, well. Wasn’t.  I told you, I’m not proud of that.  I was…not in a great place.  The drinking, the partying…then stopping that and trading one addiction for another.  Lot of unhealthy coping strategies, let’s just say.  I was always careful, though,” Tony assured him with a quick wave of his hand.  He leaned back in his chair and chewed at the inside of his cheek before continuing.  “Even when I was boozing it up.  I’m tested regularly.  All clean.  So.  Just thought you should know.  It—they never meant anything.  It was just sex.  Comfort, something, I don’t know.  I don’t know what I was trying to find.  It was stupid and selfish, but that’s been over for years.  Ask Rhodey, he’ll tell you.  Not saying I’ve been a monk, but I got myself together.”

“I’m sorry you went through that,” Steve said after a moment spent staring at a whole lot of nothing over Tony’s shoulder.  When he did look back at Tony, his eyes were soft and glazed over with sadness, but Tony couldn’t detect any judgment there.   “All these years, I would see you on TV or in one of those magazines Nat swipes from her office, and you were always smiling.  I told myself, see?  He’s happy.  But, I knew.   I tried to tell myself, it’s just the camera, the flash, bad angle, caught him by surprise, whatever, but, your smile, it’s different when you’re really happy.  It was easier, thinking you were happy.  Nat says I’m a terrible liar, but I’m pretty damn good at lying to myself.  I’m sorry, Tony.  I should’ve…I don’t know. Done something.”

“We both have a lot of should-haves, so let’s not do that to ourselves, how about? It’ll drive us crazy and not get us anywhere,” Tony suggested, rubbing his hand over his mouth to cover his frown.  “Ah…what about you?  Ten years…anything I should know?”

“Not much, really,” Steve said, leaning back in his chair a bit.  “It was don’t-ask-don’t-tell in the Army, and I wasn’t ready for anything for a long time, anyway.  Leave was pretty limited over there, and it wasn’t like you could just walk into an Afghan bar and meet someone.  Then the explosion happened.  Haven’t really had much time for dating since I’ve been back on my feet.  Despite Bucky’s best efforts.”

“So…no one?” Tony asked. 

“Couple of, you know,” Steve said, blushing to the curve of his ears and making a quick motion with his hand that Tony assumed was Steve’s version of some universal signal for hand job.  “It’s…I’m…” he stopped, wet his lips and looked away.  “I’m fine.  In that way, I mean.  I can still—you know. I couldn’t. For a while after.  I wasn’t sure—but, I can. Now.  It’s fine.”

“Oh,” Tony said numbly, because he honestly hadn’t even thought about that, because he was an idiot, apparently.  “That’s…I mean, that’s good, right, though?  You’re good now. So…”

“There’s…there’s a lot of scarring,” Steve said, glancing up at Tony and sucking in a deep breath.  He unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt above his damaged hand and rolled it up.   A dark pink slash of mottled skin ran its way up the underside of Steve’s arm. A series of smaller scars dotted the rest of his forearm, and there was a space just above his elbow where a chunk of flesh was just _missing_.  Not scarred or cut, but gone completely. 

“Steve…” Tony breathed out.

“Back’s not pretty either.  Upper legs and my right knee have damage,” Steve continued, as if Tony hadn’t spoken.  He honestly wasn’t even sure if he had.  Felt a bit like he’d slipped into a nightmare, and any minute now, the jump-scare would wake him up.  Steve put his fork down on his plate and looked down at the table, then off to the side, where the line of vases glinted on the bookcase.  “Do you really know about what you’re getting into here?  Really, Tony?  It’s…there are times.  It’s hard.  Not just for me. For the people around me.”

 “I do.  Okay, I don’t,” Tony corrected at Steve’s look.  “I’m learning.  Whatever it is, though, Steve, we’ll get through it.  Together.  We will.  I know, it’ll be hard, but--”

“No!” Steve burst out, slamming a fist onto the table hard enough to send the silverware clattering against the plates.  “You can’t…you can’t know that,” Steve said harshly, his breaths coming in pants.  “Don’t say that.  Don’t count on that.  Don’t tell yourself that. If that’s what you think, that it’ll just go away, and I’ll be…I’ll be okay again, then don’t.  Because that isn’t how this works. Three months ago, a car backfired, and I dropped to the ground.  Fourth of July, I spent with headphones that Sam gave me listening to Marvin Gaye on repeat.  This may not ever change, Tony. Ever. This may be as good as I get.”

“I didn’t mean,” Tony began, then grimaced and choked off the rest of what he had been about to say, which hadn’t been true.  He had meant it.  He wanted Steve to get better.  Wanted to fix things, fix Steve, because that’s what he did.  It was always pulsing there, this need, right below the surface of everything.  Make it better.  Make it right.  Make it perfect.  Make it enough.  Make you enough.  Make them love you.  Make yourself someone they could love.  “If it doesn’t get better, if it gets worse, then…fall back, and I’ll catch you.”

“You can’t know that. You can’t,” Steve argued vehemently, pushing back from the table, his face a mask of frustration.

“You bet I can know it.  I can.  I know me.  I know _us_.  I’m in this, whatever happens.  For better or worse. Sickness and health. Ring any bells?” Tony demanded, swallowing thickly.  “I love you.  Every single version of you is the one I love.  Every one, Steve. Not some perfect, ideal you that you keep thinking I want.  This you, college you, the you you’re going to be tomorrow, next year, a decade from now.  Every version of you is the one I love. Every damn one of them. I am down at the bottom of whatever pit you’re in, because that’s where you are, and that makes it where I want to be.  Not because I have to, or feel guilty, or whatever, but because when I’m down there, standing next to you, that’s when I can see the way out.  I was always at my best when I was standing next to you.  That hasn’t changed, Steve.”

Steve stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his gaze to where his hands were clinging to the edge of the table, crumpled in the white tablecloth the servers had so artfully arranged. 

“Steve.  Please.  Please, believe me. I’m in this.  All the way,” Tony vowed.

“I want to,” Steve rasped out after a pause that Tony counted by heartbeats.  “I do.  I don’t know why it’s so hard.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Tony insisted immediately.  “Well, okay, I mean, yeah.  There is.  But, you know what I mean.  Can it just be, I don’t know, you and me.  Just, two guys in love?  We can do that, right?  Not all the time, sure, because it’ll get complicated.  I know that.  I do.  But, then like the other ninety percent of the time, it’s just us being us.  Stupid jokes, giving each other hell, screwing our brains out.  Annoying our respective James’s.  Us.”

“Loving you has never been complicated, Tony,” Steve replied.  “That’s the easy part.  I just…don’t want you to get into something and then…then you’d feel obligated or, I don’t know, like you had to stay.  If it’s too much, you gotta promise me, you’ll say something. Walk away. I won’t hold it against you, Tony.  I wouldn’t do that.”

“Fine.  If it gets to be too much, I’ll walk away,” Tony promised.

“You’re not even trying to mean that, are you?” Steve asked with a short sigh and shake of his head.

“You will never be anything other than exactly what I want.  I’ll keep telling you that until you believe me or death do us part. Admittedly, that makes it seem like a completely safe bet on my part,” Tony said with a shrug. “Speaking of things that might complicate matters,” Tony continued, clearing his throat.  “Do you have any idea what it’ll be like with me?  We aren’t going to be able to keep a lid on this much longer. The press…they’ll pick you apart.  Anything they can get their hands on.  One minute, you’re the Brooklyn boy turned war hero.  They next, you’re some gold-digging janitor.  Have you thought about…are _you_ sure you want to take that on?”

“Well,” Steve said, drawing out the word as he studied Tony.  Tony’s heart was pounding against his chest like it wanted an audition for the Blue Man Group, but he kept his eyes glued to Steve’s.  “I was kind of figuring that getting blown up by the Taliban was something of a training course for the New York press.”

“Did the Taliban wave your grunge phase in your face before they tried to blow you up?  Then, no, not the same,” Tony quipped, giving Steve a small, wan smile.  “We could go away.  Just us. I’ve got a place. In Malibu.  Private. Get away until things blow over a bit.”

“That sounds nice, Tony,” Steve said with a small sigh.

“It won’t be easy,” Tony continued.  “Being with me.  The press, yeah, they suck, when they aren’t being useful.  But, there’s…,” he stopped, rubbing at his forehead with the pad of his thumb.  He wanted to sweep Steve off his feet, not talk about the admittedly long litany of reasons Steve should run like hell.  But, he supposed, they’d loved each other like kids, and that hadn’t worked out so well.  Loving each other like adults meant actually talking about things and being upfront with each other, and for Steve, he could hold up the mirror and actually look at the reflection.  “I work.  A lot.  Weird hours.  If this clean energy thing takes off, it’ll be even more time away from you, and I know, the timing sucks, but I’ve got to be out front with that.  I’m eight years sober, but I still go to meetings.  Carol—Rhodey’s ex—she’s my sponsor.  I forget things like birthdays and anniversaries.  I try to control things, because I’m scared shitless most of the time.  About messing this up.  Losing you.  Which probably means I’m going to mess it up, and I can’t seem to make myself stop, even when I see it coming.  I want this too much.  So…yeah.”

“Tony,” Steve started.

“Sorry.  Sorry, that was…God, that was a lot.  I didn’t mean to just dump all my shit on you like that,” Tony said, pushing a hand through his hair.  “It’s not bad, most of the time, I mean. I’m not, like—it isn’t that I wouldn’t be there. With you.  I don’t work _all_ the time.  Obie and Pepper…hell, the company practically runs itself. Ignore me.  I’ll stop.  Or, well. Not stop, but be better.  I can be better. I’ll—“

“Tony,” Steve interrupted.  “Slow down.  Hey, it’s okay,” Steve soothed.  “You think I don’t know you work a lot or get ideas in the middle of the night?  Or the, ah…middle of other things?”

“That was one time,” Tony protested with a weak laugh. 

“You wrote an equation on my chest,” Steve reminded him. “In permanent marker. It wouldn’t come off for like a week and a half.”

“Is now a good time to tell you that I have never found you hotter than in that week and a half?” Tony asked, a small, teasing grin forming.  The corners of Steve’s mouth tugged up in an answering smile, and he glanced around the room, seeming to center himself a bit before his gaze landed back on Tony. 

“I’m not asking you to be any different than you are, Tony.  We’ve both changed since everything happened.  Probably a lot more than either of us realize.  Maybe…maybe those changes, maybe they’re the kind that move us a little bit closer to each other instead of further away,” Steve said slowly, like he was trying out the words in his head even as he said them.  “We’re not the people we were, but the people we were kind of screwed up.”

“So, you’re saying yes to the whole dating thing?” Tony asked carefully.

“Is the third date still the write-on-your-chest date or…?” Steve asked with a mock frown.

“Social conventions. So passé,” Tony protested, grinning wickedly in return. 

“Dating,” Steve repeated, shaking his head lightly at the concept, a smile working its way over his features.

“Dating.  Okay.  So.  Yeah,” Tony stammered.  “That’s…I’d like that.”

“Me, too,” Steve replied, giving Tony that same soft, shy smile that kept melting its way through Tony’s chest and making his heart skip beats.  “Do you want me to make some coffee?” Steve asked.

“Nah, I’d better head back.  You should get some rest, and I’ve got more to go over before the presentation tomorrow. Leave it,” Tony said, when Steve started to clean up the dishes.  “They’ll come by tomorrow and pick everything up.”

“I’ll give you a key,” Steve offered.

“Well…rather awkwardly, the building kind of came with keys to each of the units.  Just in case of emergency.  Pepper has them.  Not me.  I wouldn’t…except for that time where I did, but, all in all, I think we can agree that ended well.  Or, will end well.  Not that that’s an excuse, because, obviously, huge invasion of privacy and all that.  Which…yeah.  What I’m saying is—“ Tony tried.

“Tony,” Steve broke in, reaching a hand across the table and placing it over Tony’s own hand, which was fisted into his napkin.  “I’m saying, I’ll give you a key.  Okay?  You should have a key.”

“Oh,” Tony replied dumbly, slow blinking at Steve to make sure he understood.  “Oh, okay. Thanks. Thank you.  That’s…I’ll have Pepper send over a key to my place.  And a keycard for the Tower.  That’ll let you have unlimited access.  So.  You could stop by. Whenever you wanted.  Not that you have to.  No pressure.  Because, I’m wooing.  See?  Still wooing. But, you could, is all.”

“I’d like that,” Steve said, sliding his hand back to his own lap.  “I’d love to see it.  And Dum-E.  I’ve missed him.”

“Okay.  Okay, so…that’s settled, then.  We’re dating.  We’re exchanging keys.  We talked about kids.  That’s great.  That’s all great.  I’m just going to go back to my apartment, put all that aside and look at Pepper’s graphs for the incredibly important presentation I have tomorrow.  That should work.  No problem with that plan,” Tony said with a frustrated snort.

“Let me make some coffee.  There’s still dessert to finish.  Bring your stuff over here.  I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can listen,” Steve suggested. 

“Yeah?” Tony blurted out in surprise. 

“Sure,” Steve said. 

“You don’t have to, really.  I can do it.   I should probably just—“ Tony began, then cut himself off.  He had kept Steve away from his life once before, and how had that turned out?  “Sorry.  Habit.  I’ll grab my tablet.”

Tony wasn’t sure what woke him.  He must have fallen asleep on Steve’s loveseat, he realized with a start.  There was a spring pushing its way through the thin fabric like it was trying to get frisky with him without so much as buying him dinner first.  The room was quiet, except for the hiss of the radiator.

Three hours of bad coffee, brandied cherries, poached pears, graphs, profit and cost projections, environmental impact, investment credits and tax incentives had gone by without either of them quite realizing the time.  Tony found himself halfway through outlining the opportunities with the United Nations’ Sustainable Energy for All program when he realized Steve was passed out against the wall behind his bed with an Army Energy Initiatives Task Force request for proposals clutched to his chest in a partially crumpled wad. 

He’d meant to add a few more slides to the presentation and head back to his own apartment.  That was the last thing he remembered.  Getting up and gently leaning Steve over onto the bed’s flat pillow and pulling the faded quilt over his legs.  Turning out the light and scrolling through the slideshow one more time.  He should have left then, but there was something familiarly calming about working next to Steve like that.  Shitty apartment, check.  Radiator that barely functioned, check.  Steve’s soft, comforting snores punctuating the night while Tony powered through whatever project had his attention, check.  Except, he wasn’t nineteen anymore, as his back reminded him with a pang. 

His neck was twisted at an odd angle, making it crick, and he reached up to rub at the muscle when he looked over and realized Steve wasn’t laying on the bed.  The quilt was pushed down in a bunch at the foot of the bed, and the pillow was on the floor next to the loveseat, but Tony’s eyes immediately went to the thing that did not belong, a bag of what looked like frozen peas squashed up in the divot between the bed and the wall.

The room was dark, but, he noticed, as his eyes adjusted, there was a sliver of light shining from under the bathroom door.   The shadow of feet cut through it, making it move and ripple.  Tony heard a clattering sound that made him think of dropping screws, followed by Steve’s muffled curse.  He set the tablet that was still balanced on his knee on top of the small glass coffee table, got up and walked the few steps to the bathroom door.  Tony knocked lightly with the backs of his knuckles, letting the sound hang there for a moment before he spoke.

“Steve?” Tony called out in a voice still rough with sleep.  “Hey, you okay in there?”

“I’m fine,” Steve replied.  Even through the door, Tony could hear the tension in Steve’s voice, turning it brittle and wrong.  “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.  It’s fine.  I was…sleeping wrong, anyway.  So…ah.  Can I come in?  Or, you come out?  I’m…” Tony trailed off, suddenly unsure of what he was.  Steve was in the bathroom, which…okay, not weird, except it was, and Tony wasn’t sure why, but the skittering sound of screws that weren’t screws hitting the tile filled his brain and set off alarm bells that were just getting louder the longer there was a door between them.

“Go back to bed,” Steve called out from behind the door.

“Yeah, not much of a chance of that.  Steve?  Can you open the door?” Tony implored.  He didn’t try the knob, but his hand hovered over it, waiting.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know if it was locked, though the why of it, the worry that was coursing down his spine and spinning its way through his gut, he didn’t want to put a name to, not yet.  “Steve?  Come on, you’re…I’m kind of freaking out a bit here.  Just…open the door, would you?  Please?”

The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, and gooseflesh dimpled his skin.  This was wrong.  Everything about this.  Tony was fully awake now, his heartbeat rabbiting in his chest.  Everything felt off.  He could feel his anxiety ratcheting up with each beat while he waited.  There was a part of him that didn’t want Steve to open the door, wanted to do what Steve suggested and go back to bed, because knowing things meant having to deal with things.  And this…well.  He suspected this was something that needed dealing with.

The door finally opened, just a crack.  Not so much open as not closed anymore.  Tony hesitantly peeked in, a sudden fear settling in his gut that he was going to find something terrible, but it was just Steve, somehow folded into the tiny space that passed for a bathroom.  He leaning over the small sink with one hand braced on the white ceramic edge.  The other was fisted against the wall, next to a crack that rand down from the ceiling in a light brown color against the white paint.  The door to the mirrored medicine cabinet was open, and an orange plastic bottle was in the sink next to the showerhead with the hose wrapped around it.  The white cap and a scattering of pills littered the floor next to the drain. 

Not screws, then.

“You okay?” Tony asked in a careful, pinched voice that didn’t sound like his own. 

Steve didn’t answer.  Just stared down at the sink.  For a second, Tony wondered what he was seeing.  If it was upside down.  If sometimes, the world went upside down for Steve. 

“I couldn’t get the bottle open.  Then the lid came off, and I dropped it.  Some of them went down the drain,” Steve said dully.

“Okay.  Well,” Tony started, at a loss for words.   He looked down at the pills, scattered across the floor, fitted into corners and grooves, like they were looking for hiding spots.  They were hard to see against the tile, except where they landed on one of the grout lines.  One was sitting rather precariously on the small, metal cover for the hole in the floor that served, Tony assumed, as the shower drain.  He just wasn’t going to think about Steve trying to actually shower in here.  It was like someone looked at a camper bathroom and thought, ‘hmmm, too roomy.’

 “Is it your arm hurting?” Tony asked carefully.

“Back,” Steve replied. 

“Sorry—that’s—you probably slept wrong.  I should’ve thought of that.  Woken you up.  I wasn’t thinking—I don’t know why I didn’t think—“ Tony stuttered. 

“It was the undercarriage of an armored vehicle that tried to get up close and personal with my spine, not how I was sleeping, Tony,” Steve rasped out, taking his hand off the wall long enough to rub it over his forehead, squinching his eyes shut for a moment.  He closed the medicine cabinet door and, suddenly, Tony could see both of their reflections in the glass. Steve’s drawn, tight look and flat stare, and Tony’s own pinched, nervous gaze staring back at him. 

“I—Steve,” Tony breathed out, reaching out to cup a hand over Steve’s arm where it held onto the edge of the sink for support.

“They have someone watch you while you pee in a cup. At the pain doc,” Steve replied, still looking at his own reflection and steadfastly not looking at Tony.

 It took a few, long seconds for Tony’s mind to play catch up, but when he got there, it was a bit like slamming into a wall.  He could see the pain coming, but he couldn’t stop the momentum, and then it was just there, all around him, running through him, making everything hurt, because Steve hurt.  Steve hurt, and maybe there wasn’t a fix.  Maybe Tony couldn’t fix him, which somehow hurt more, because it was failure and not being enough and so familiar it was practically on speeddial. 

“I know,” Tony replied.  He didn’t know what else to say.  He rubbed a hand up and down over his face, looking down at the pills that had spilled out of the bottle, probably when Steve tried to get the damn thing open.  Steve bent over as best he could in the cramped space and started trying to pick up the small, precious pills where they sat in the grooves of the tile. 

“I got it, I got it,” Tony said, bending down and picking the pills up one by one while Steve stood ramrod straight above him.  Standing up, Tony grabbed the bottle out of the sink and dumped all but two from his palm into the container, then put the lid back on. 

“You had one yet?” Tony asked.  Steve shook his head. “Okay.” Tony handed the remaining pills to Steve, who looked at them for a second before dry swallowing both, which was disturbing if only for the routineness of it, though Tony mentally filed that to the side for the moment. First things first.  “Come back to bed?” 

Steve nodded once, and Tony shifted out of the way so he could maneuver around the table, still piled with the remains of their dinner, to get back to his bed.  He sat down heavily on the side, looked up at Tony, then put his head in his hands, hunching his shoulders over and making himself seem small in a way that Steve should never be. 

Tony walked over and sat down next to Steve on the bed, close enough that the lines of their bodies were touching.  He let out a low sigh, then leaned over and pressed a kiss against the slope of Steve’s shoulder. 

“I got you, okay?  You hear me?  I’m not saying we’ll fix this, but…I—we--can do better than…pills and frozen peas,” Tony said, trying to keep the frustrated disgust out of his voice.  He reached a hand behind him to dig the bag out from where it was shoved against the wall and dropped it in his lap with a crunching sound.  He blinked against the sudden stinging in his eyes, and swallowed past the lump in his throat that felt about pill-size.  God, he hated this.  He wanted to take Steve away from here, away from the physically impossible shower and the tiny bed and the bottle of pills Steve despised and needed. 

“You don’t know that,” Steve protested in weak, tired voice.  “This is what I meant, Tony.  This is me.  This is what you get. You shouldn’t have to settle for a life of dealing with a husband who—who—“

“Wait, no.  Don’t you do that, Steve.   I’m not settling for anything!  You really think that?  Don’t answer,” Tony cut in quickly, when Steve opened his mouth.  “Truth is, I always thought you were the one getting the short end of the stick.  I got this amazing guy, who was smart and funny and kind and everyone liked him, and I somehow convinced him I was good for him.  Like, no one tell him!  For God’s sake, don’t pull back the curtain,” Tony said with a grimace, slashing his hand through the air in front of him.  “I kept thinking you’d figure it out, and then, it seemed like you did, and I just…I guess I accepted it.  I’d been waiting for it, after all.  The shoe finally dropped.”

“How could you think that?  You were always the best thing that ever happened to me.  Even when it hurt.  I wouldn’t have traded any of it.  Not a second, Tony, not for anything,” Steve said, looking over at Tony with a soft, urgent gaze.

“I know. I do,” Tony vowed.  “Really.   I do.  Weird thing, you and me.  We always loved each other. So much.  It was…this incredible thing, right?  I didn’t know it could be like that, this Nicholas Sparks kiss in the rain bullshit, but then it happened, and, God, it was amazing. But, thing was, neither of us ever felt like we’re good enough for the other.  We loved each other, but not enough to see in ourselves what the other saw.”

“When’d you get so smart?” Steve asked with a small huff.

“I feel like giving everyone in the audience a car and my favorite scented candle,” Tony said with a low chuckle.  “I know you think we would’ve eventually broken up, even without Howard’s little assist. Too many differences, too much separating us.  Maybe you were right.  Maybe we would have fractured apart, no matter what. I don’t know.  But, see, the thing is, now, we know what it feels like to live without each other.  I know how it feels to walk into a building I should love and wish it was a crappy apartment with the mattress on the floor.  I know what it feels like to give speeches and get awards and look through a crowd of faces, searching for someone who isn’t there.  So.  Maybe you were right, and we wouldn’t have made it. Then.  But, we will now.  These…challenges.  Whatever they are.  We’ll face them together. We’ll get through these things, because we know what’s its like when we don’t.  And I don’t think either of us want that life.  I don’t want that life.  I’d rather be here, holding a bag of frozen peas in a shitty Brooklyn walk-up with no Wi-Fi than try that again.  I’m not good at that life.  I can be good at this, Steve.  Let me try.  That’s all I’m asking.”

“Tony…” Steve started, a frown tightening his jaw. 

“You never walked away from a fight in your life,” Tony said.  “I’m asking you to fight for us.  Fight for us, just as hard as you fight for me.”

Steve dropped his gaze down to the floor and let a long out a long hiss of air, brow drawing together in a deep line.  He reached out a hand and wrapped it in Tony’s, threading their fingers together between them. 

“Together, huh?” Steve said in a low, husked-out voice that had an edge of slurriness to it that probably meant the medicine was working.

“Together,” Tony promised. 

“Bucky says I can’t say no to you,” Steve reminded him.

“I told you, that’s one of your finest qualities,” Tony acknowledged, earning a small puff of laughter from Steve. 

“Like making you happy,” Steve said softly.  “You should happy.”

“This…this is me happy,” Tony whispered, an aching, wet sound that he didn’t mean to let out coming on the heels of his words.   “Are you…happy?”

“’Course I am. I’m with you,” Steve replied in the same easy, certain tone that Steve seemed able to say those kinds of things in, like he wasn’t handing Tony a piece of his heart each time.  Or, maybe that’s why it was so easy for him.  He wasn’t giving Tony anything Tony didn’t already have.  His ring, the one with the hands holding the heart, flashed through Tony’s mind. 

For a second, it was overwhelming, the love he had for this man, who asked so little and yet managed to love without any precondition or judgment.  Tony looked away, eyes burning, and rubbed the heel of his hand into his forehead.  He felt Steve give his hand a gentle squeeze, which held long enough for Tony to find some semblance of equilibrium, then let go.

“Give me my peas,” Steve ordered gruffly, though there was a smile behind it.  Tony handed him the bag, which Steve flattened out in the middle of the bed.  He laid down on top of it and reached for the quilt.  Tony grabbed an end and helped, smoothing it over Steve’s chest in quick, jerky movements as a rush of relief and adrenaline hit his system.  “I do love you, Tony,” Steve added, covering Tony’s hand with his own and stilling his motions.  “So much.  So much, sometimes its…”

“Yeah. I know,” Tony replied.  “I love you, too,” he said, running his other hand through Steve’s hair, where the sweat-dampened strands were sticking to his forehead. 

Tony watched Steve’s eyes flutter shut as he drifted off, then curled up on the few inches of bed next to him as best he could.  Some kind of brace, Tony thought.  It could run heat and cold on intervals.  Thin, but with embedded sensors to monitor vitals and measure muscle tension during contractions.   Something that could flex and allow mobility, maybe shift some of the movement to Steve’s hips and give his spine a break, the way a mountain backpack does.  That could work, Tony considered.  Definitely could work.  He could probably have a prototype design ready in a few days if he put his mind to it.  Might give Steve some relief, anyway.  Could work.  It could.  Could—

“Good, you’re not dead,” Barnes’ voice rang in Tony’s ears as his eyes snapped open to a too-bright view of a white ceiling marked by a single light bulb with a long cord dangling down.  He turned his head to find the source of the shouting and rolled off the few precious inches of real estate he’d carved out on Steve’s bed, landing with a thud on the floor between the bed and the coffee table.  “He’s just overslept or something,” Barnes was saying into his cell phone.  “Fairly sure it was Stark’s fault.  Call it a hunch.  Okay, yeah, I’ll tell him to call you.  Yeah, he’s doing fine.”

“Hi, I’m fine,” Tony said from the floor with a little wave in Barnes’ direction.

“What time is it?” Steve asked, sitting up on his elbows and blinking down at Tony.  “Why are you on the floor?  Buck, what are you doing here—ah, shit, I’m late.”

“Yeah, work called Sam, since you got the job through the VA thing, and he called your cell, but it’s off, and then he called me, because our Steve emergency phone chart is like that, you ass.  You had me freaking out,” Bucky complained, pointing his phone at Steve in accusation. 

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve replied.  “We were having dinner, and I turned the phone off after you called.  Guess I forgot to turn it back on.”

“Wonder what distracted you?” Bucky said sarcastically, giving Tony a look.  “When I said to be bold, I meant like a carriage ride through the park, not moving in with him, for Christ’s sake.” 

“He didn’t move in.  We had dinner.  We were talking and then…my back, and Tony…he helped,” Steve explained.  “Am I fired?”

“Not yet, but they aren’t going to be happy about this happening again,” Bucky said with a frustrated sigh.  “How’s your back?”

“Better,” Steve said, pushing himself up and reaching down to help Tony off the floor. 

“Thanks,” Tony muttered, shooting Barnes an annoyed look. 

“How many?” Barnes asked, looking at Steve.

“Just two,” Steve replied.  “I’m fine.  Give me a minute.”

“You’re not fine,” Tony interjected.  “He’s not fine.  He slept on peas.  Peas, Barnes.  It’s killing me.”

“Tell me about it,” Barnes replied, jerking his head at Steve.  “Hey, Tony, can you maybe go give your driver guy a call?  Probably, Steve  should get to work before they blow a gasket because there aren’t enough paper towels in the dispenser or whatever.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tony said quickly, thankful for something to do.  “I’ll just—“ he said, motioning towards the door.  Steve looked up at him, then reached out and took his hand, giving Tony’s fingers a light squeeze before brushing his lips across Tony’s knuckles. 

“You two are killing me.  Honestly.  I’d give my other arm if you’d stop with the doe-eyes and just happily ever after yourselves already,” Barnes snorted. 

“We’re…dating,” Steve said. 

“Dating?  I leave you two alone for a night and he’s moved in,” Barnes pointed out.  “You’re not dating.  You two never dated. You went from cute geek boy you rescued to, ‘Hey, Buck, I gotta go get grandad’s ring from your folks’ in a flat minute.  I’ve got cheese in my fridge I have a longer relationship with.”

“First, gross.  Second, I told you, I did not move in—“ Tony protested.

“Did you give him a key?  Of course, you gave him a key,” Barnes continued, ignoring Tony. 

“He could maybe stay some.  If he wanted to,” Steve said with a shrug, like it didn’t matter, except it mattered more than anything.

“Yeah?” Tony said.

“You—driver,” Barnes said to Tony.  “You—dressed.”

“Calm down Mr. Furley, I’m going, I’m going,” Tony replied, edging out of the room.

He crossed the hall to his apartment and went inside, pulling his phone out his pocket.  There was an email from Obie, wanting to meet before the Board meeting this after.  Tony sighed.  He hoped that was a good sign.  It would be nice to go to the Board with Obie’s support.  He sent a quick reply and then tapped the number two button for Happy. 

“Hey, Boss,” Happy announced. Well.  Happy’s chin announced. 

“Lift the camera up. Just a lit—no, too much,” Tony said with an exasperated sigh when Happy’s forehead filled the screen.  “How far from our building are you?”

“Couple a’blocks,” Happy replied. 

“Bring the car around,” Tony told him.  “Steve needs to get to work.  We overslept, and—“

“Hey! Congrats!” Happy burst in.

“No—no…we’re dating. We’re not…we didn’t. We--you know what?  Just bring the car,” Tony muttered. 

“I got your badge,” Happy announced, holding a plastic badge with Tony’s picture on it up to the camera.  “Captain Rhodes let me make it on your 3D printer thing.  Gotta tell you, Boss, that sure is an amazing piece of machinery.  They print guns on those things, did you know that?”

“Do not, under any circumstances, print a gun.  And if that says Tony Stank, you’re fired,” Tony warned, running a hand over his face. 

“Nah, Boss. Captain Rhodes, he was very clear,”  Happy said. 

“I’ll bet he was,” Tony snorted.

“Tony Stark-Rogers, see?” Happy replied, holding the badge up so close to the camera it went all fuzzy.

Tony stared at the phone for a second, then shook his head.  Damn it, Rhodey.  Now, I’ve got something in my eye, he thought, a strange, light feeling running through him that he thought might be joy.

“Okay.  Okay, well.  Tell him I said thanks,” Tony said gruffly. 

“Will do ya’. See you downstairs in a bit, Boss,” Happy answered.

Tony shut the phone off and walked back out in the hallway.  He could hear Barnes’ voice before he even got to Steve’s door.

“—doing the same thing you did before, Steve.  Don’t think I don’t see it. You let him in.  Here.  Make him right at home in your life.  You’re good at that,” Barnes continued in a low, frustration-roughened tone.  “Tony Stark, and you’ve got him taking a bus and living in some cramped, bullshit Brooklyn walk-up when you could be playing Lifestyles of the Ridiculously Rich and Infamous down at his Tower.”

“I’m not…this—me and Tony--it isn’t about that,” Steve insisted brusquely.  “We’re taking it slow.”

“Bullshit.  _You’re_ taking it slow.  You don’t want to go be a part of his world, and I get why, I do, Stevie, I do.  I’m not saying something like that’s easy.  Not for guys like you an’ me.   Hell, look at me and Nat.  You think that was fun, meeting her folks?  Me, with my one good arm, extremely-useful-in-the-real-world gunner skills and a disability pension that won’t pay half a month’s rent in this city?” Barnes demanded. 

“It’s different,” Steve replied through a sigh. 

“In your head, it’s different,” Barnes snapped back.  “Come on, Steve.  Look at you.  Your back is killing you.  Your hand…you sure as hell don’t need to be pushing a mop around all day, and you know it. I see you at the end of a week, man, and it kills me.  And, that’s me, who has watched you do this to yourself since you were a ninety-pound-soaking-wet-ball-of-fury.  Stark, shit, man.  He’s dying to take care of you.  He’s been dying to spoil you since you two met, and I literally fought a bear with a lamp to prove it, so.  You know. Can you just let him?  A little?”

“I can take care of myself, Buck,” Steve said.

“Yeah.  I know you can.  But, thing is, you don’t have to,” Barnes replied tightly.  “I know what taking this kind of step means, Steve.  Nat…God, if it hadn’t been for her, I don’t know what I’d have done after everything.  After we got home.  I was—it was bad.  My head.  My arm.  You—Jesus, you were a mess, and me—I was barely holding it together.  Couldn’t take care of me, much less you.  Fuck, man, some days, I didn’t want to get out of bed, but I had her.  Even then, that wasn’t always enough.  If she wasn’t who she is, she’d have left my sorry ass, the way I treated her.  I’m not proud of it, but I’m saying I know how hard this is.  Trying for something.  I know what the whole idea of this thing with Tony is doing to you.  I do.  I get it, Steve.  I really do.”

“I know you do, Buck,” Steve replied through a sigh. 

“Good. Then, you listen to me, okay?  Voice of experience and all,” Barnes implored gruffly.  “I’ve watched you deal with this shit since we got out, and I know, I haven’t always been the most helpful.  ‘Cause of getting my own shit sorted, but still.  And that took me, and Nat and Sam and a whole fucking village of people.  Remember when Nat’s mom came to stay with us?  You think that was just a three-month mother-in-law visit for fun?”

“You lost an arm, Buck.  I’m just…” Steve trailed off, voice going thin and distant.

“Yeah, you’re just.  You’re just nothing, Steve.  You’re going through the motions.  Getting up, going to work, putting on a show of trying this glass thing, mainly so me and Sam’ll get off your back,” Barnes shot back.  “I know the drill.  Been there, done that.  Got a couple fancy prescriptions to prove it.  You know what I learned?  This isn’t one of those things you do all at once or on your own.  Needing help, that’s not weakness, Steve.  Needing help and being a stubborn ass who won’t take it when its handed to him on a, God, these are actual silver platters, aren’t they?  Where the hell’d he get dinner brought in from?  Nevermind, forget it.”

“I don’t think its weak to ask for help, Buk.  I’m just—this thing with Tony.  It’s new.  Well…not new, but…one step at a time, okay?  We’re trying to…take it slow.  Do it the right way this time, you know,” Steve replied.

“Yes, the little real estate venture going on here is practically the very definition of taking it slow,” Barnes deadpanned.  “Look, a couple months ago, you told Sam you couldn’t think of anything that made you happy, and, yeah, he told me, because you’re freaking him out and he’s a good guy who’s seen too much of this shit down at the VA.  The past couple weeks, with Tony…I don’t know what you’ve been, but tell me that happy isn’t in there somewhere? Tony…he makes you happy. Always has.  You can’t live off that.  Getting happiness from someone else.  Not forever. It’s too much for them and not enough for you. Believe me, I tried.  Doesn’t work. But, it’s a damn fine place to start until you figure it out on your own.  And Tony…he’s going to help you with that.  We all are.”

“I know. I’m—it’s a lot.  Everything’s happening at once, and it’s…it’s just a lot, okay?” Steve stammered.

“No. No, you can’t look at it like that.  One thing and then another, that’s how it has to be.  If you try to think of the whole thing at once, you’ll freak yourself out,” Barnes warned. 

“Too late,” Steve husked out with a brittle huff of a laugh.

“One thing at a time, okay?  Let me call Sam,” Barnes offered.  “He can tell that job that he has someone else for them.  You…you stay here. Rest.  Then, we’ll see about that doctor, okay?  Maybe get you back with the group thing that Sam runs.  That’d be good, right?  You said it helped, hearing other vets talk. I’ll go, too. Hell, Nat’s been after me for ages to give it another go.”

“I don’t know, Buck. Just quit—what if—how does that even--“ Steve started.

“Steve, let Tony help you,” Barnes cut in. “It’s a drop in the bucket to him, and he’d practically wet himself, he’d be so excited.  Don’t make me beg.  Or, worse. Call Nat.”

“What if…” Steve started, then broke off, and a long beat of silence hung in the air. Tony was rooted to the spot outside the door, one foot on the ugly blue mat, and probably the other in the grave, if his heart pounding in his ears was any indication.  “Buck…what if he thinks it’s about the money?” Steve asked in a quiet, shaky voice.

“He’s not going to think that,” Barnes replied quickly.  “He’s not, Steve.” 

I’m not, Tony echoed in his head.  Listen to Barnes.  Please.  Please, listen.  And, God, what kind of upside down world was it where the logic of James Buchanan Barnes was his lifeline?

“He did. Before.  He did,” Steve husked out, low and stilted, the words cutting their way through Tony and leaving a gaping hole in his chest where his heart, the one Steve had given him, was pouring out. 

“Well.  Well, he’s not going to this time, okay?  I’ll go all Fugitive on his ass, if he so much as tries,” Barnes tried to tease.  “Ah, Steve, shit.  This isn’t like before, okay?  First of all, you’ve got Team Happily Ever After on your side.  You and Stark screw this up again, and we’re duct taping you together naked and shoving you in the broom closet on the thirty-fifth floor of the Tower until you stop being idiots.”

“That’s…concerningly specific of you, Buck,” Steve replied carefully. 

“We took a poll.  Anyway, just saying, we aren’t going to let what happened before, happen again.  No way, no how.  I can’t deal with another ten years of you doing your Eeyore routine, man, and Rhodes, he’s halfway between freaking out that Tony’s going to go off the deep end again if this doesn’t work and trying to call dibs on ‘Uncle James,’ which he isn’t getting, by the way,” Barnes finished. 

“I know.  I know, I do, I just…I don’t want to mess this up,” Steve said.

“You’re not going to mess this up,” Barnes assured him.  “You’re not, Steve.  We aren’t going to let you, first of all.  And Tony, man…Tony’s all in, you know that, right?  Maybe a bit to the extreme, but I can’t fault the guy too much.  I know what you were like after you two split, and if what Rhodes says is true, Tony was one foot into a scotch-filled grave.  No wonder you two can’t get your heads around this thing.  You’re both so busy panicking about how it’ll feel if this goes to shit to just sit back and be amazed that you even get a second chance at something like this.  Most people, they don’t ever get this.  Ever.  They get happy, they get content, they get fond or comfortable. They don’t this thing you and Tony have, where you’re like the air each other needs to breathe.  Now, you get a second chance at it, and I can’t watch you make the same damn mistake you did the first time around.  You gotta go to him a bit, Steve.  He’ll meet you more than halfway. That’s Tony.  But, you’ve got to be the one to move here.”

“I know,” Steve said. “I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” Barnes replied.  “Let him make it easier.  He’s not going to think less of you, Steve.  You don’t always have to be the one who rescues him.”

Tony walked a few paces back to the stair railing and peered over the edge where the staircase snaked down to the squares of cracked tile in the vestibule below and sucked in a deep, bracing breath, the kind that filled his chest until it hurt.  His eyes were stinging, tiny, burning pinpricks at the corners.  His knuckles were white where he gripped the railing. Steve’s words, the fear in them, the remembered pain of truth they held, all swirled around in his head.  It still shocked him.  The idea that Steve—wonderful, smart, brave, kind—Steve, could ever think he didn’t belong in Tony’s world.  Had he helped to nurture that by not doing more to make Steve a part of his life?  Probably, Tony thought with a jolt of self-recrimination.  No, not probably.  He had.  But, like Barnes said, they had a second chance to get this right. 

Tony turned from the railing, walked back to the door and pushed it open.  Barnes was sitting in one of the folding chairs from the prior night’s dinner, while Steve still sat on the bed, with the quilt over his legs, picking at a thread with one hand. 

“Did you get ahold of Happy?” Steve asked, looking up at Tony.

“I did,” Tony replied.  He walked over to sit next to Steve on the thin mattress, one hand skating lightly down Steve’s back.  Steve glanced over at him, then back down to his lap, where he dropped the thread and made a fist against his thigh. 

“Okay,” Steve replied in a dull, flat tone.

“But, and hear me out, here,” Tony began, trying to keep his voice light.  “I was thinking, maybe you don’t go in today.  Maybe you just stay here.  Relax.  I’ve got the Board meeting this afternoon, and Obie wants to meet first, or I’d stay.”

“I’ll stay for a while,” Barnes offered. “I don’t go in until noon.”

“See?  It all works out,” Tony said with a nod.  He leaned over and nudged his shoulder into Steve’s arm.  “Maybe you don’t go in tomorrow either.  Or the day after that.  Or the day after that.”

“You heard,” Steve said with a grimace.

“Just the parts when I was eavesdropping,” Tony admitted as sheepishly as he could manage. 

“I’m fine. Really. It’s fine. I’m—“ Steve broke off, looking over to the mismatched shelves where the line of not-bowls sat.  Tony reached out and covered Steve’s fisted hand with his own, giving it a squeeze, and drawing Steve’s gaze back to him.

“You’re not.  I’m not.  Probably none of us are,” Tony replied.  “But, and you know how much pains me to say this, Barnes is right.   There is nothing I want more right now than to help you, but you’ve got to decide to let me, and be okay with that.  You can let Barnes here call He Who Shall Not Be Named, let him tell your boss he has someone else for that job, and you can relax here today.  Maybe hang out at my place, if you want.  If you’re not there yet, though, that’s okay, too.  Happy will be downstairs in a few minutes, and he’ll take you to work.  It’s up to you.  There’s no right or wrong here, Steve.  Either way, I’ll be back here tonight, and, hopefully, we can celebrate our success with the Board.”

“I can’t just—just quit my job and…and do what?” Steve asked.  “Do nothing.  I can’t—what’s am I supposed to do?”

“Get better,” Tony replied softly.  “Steve, from the moment I met you, you always took care of me.  Let me take care of you this time, okay?  Please.  Please, Steve.  Let me do this.”

Steve looked between Tony and Barnes, then back down at his lap, where Tony’s hand still covered his.  Tony felt Steve’s hand relax and shift to curl long fingers—artist’s hands, Tony thought, with a flash of memory—through Tony’s. 

“Call Sam,” Steve said, looking up at Barnes.  A surge of relief slammed into Tony, making his stomach clench and roll. He closed his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath, then opened them and grinned over at Steve. 

“Okay, then,” Tony said, still grinning stupidly.

“Okay,” Steve replied, a slow, soft, somewhat disbelieving smile spreading over his face.

“Ugh, you two,” Barnes said, shaking his head and making a retching face. He got up and pulled out his phone, then walked out into the hallway, presumably to impart the good news to Wilson. 

“This is weird,” Steve said after a moment. 

“Good-weird, I hope,” Tony replied.

“Good-weird.  Yeah.  Yeah, I guess that’s about right,” Steve said with a sharp laugh.  “Don’t you need to get to your meeting?”

“Yes.  Don’t want to go, though,” Tony admitted, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder.  He felt Steve press a quick kiss to the side of his head.  “Rather stay here.  See if I can get to second base.”

“Pretty sure you can get wherever you want,” Steve laughed.  “You want to have some breakfast before you go?”

“Eh, love to, but Pepper’s got this pre-meeting-meeting thing set up, and she’ll have food.  Probably granola and fruit.  Maybe something with wheat.  She thinks I don’t eat right,” Tony said.

“She’s going to have donuts, isn’t she?” Steve asked, pulling back a little and looking down at Tony.  “Admit it, you’re ditching me for donuts.”

“The really good kind, with the custard and powdered sugar, though,” Tony said with a rakish grin.  “I’ll have her add bagels, and, God help me, jelly, to the regular breakfast rotation, how about?”

“I love you, Tony,” Steve said, giving Tony’s hand another gentle squeeze. 

“If your heathen food choices are what tips the scale, I’ll buy out Smuckers,” Tony offered, the words coming out more shakily than he’d intended.  “I love you, too, you know.”

“Yeah.  I know. Not going to complain about hearing it, though,” Steve replied easily.  “Go to your meetings.  Wow ‘em, like you always do.”

“Dinner tonight?  To celebrate, knock on wood.  Do we have wood here?  That…sounded dirtier than I meant,” Tony said with a teasing grin.  “Though…technically, my pre-meeting doesn’t start for another hour, so…”

“Oh, just no.  No.  Seriously, I leave you two alone for five minutes and we’ve moved from deep thoughts to deep thoughts by Jack Handy?” Barnes ordered, snapping a finger at the hallway.  “I mean, I’m happy for you and all, but come on.  Give a guy a break.  Sam’s taking care of your work, Steve.  He’s got a guy who just got laid off and can start right away, so it’s all good.”

“Hey, remember when we nicknamed him Coitus Interruptus?  Because, I do,” Tony grumped, giving Barnes a long-suffering look. 

“Walking in on you two in the middle of something had the difficulty level of shooting fish in a barrel,” Barnes retorted.  “Don’t you have a meeting?”

“Technically, I have three meetings, but I take your point,” Tony said, releasing Steve’s hand and rising from his place on the bed next to Steve.  He reached over and ran his hand through Steve’s hair, gripping it hard enough to get Steve’s eyes on him.  His eyes were glazed and wide, and there were bright red stains of color on Steve’s cheeks.  Tony strongly suspected the rest of the blood was currently rushing elsewhere. 

Honestly, how important was clean energy, really?

“Go,” Steve urged with a small, knowing smile.  “I’ll be here, ready to celebrate when you get back.”

“Hold the exact thought that’s in your head right now,” Tony told him firmly, tightening his hold just a bit in Steve’s hair before letting go and leaning down to press a kiss to Steve’s lips.  He meant it to be a quick goodbye, but Steve’s mouth opened immediately, warm and wet, with a soft sigh escaping Steve’s lips, and before Tony knew it, Barnes was hauling them apart with his good hand and a litany of invectives. 

By the time Tony made it back to the Tower, he couldn’t keep the airy grin off his face.   Pepper took one look at him and almost burst into tears.   Rhodey looked up from the conference tabled, eyed Tony and steepled his hands in front of him.

“Is this a high-five moment or are we chest-bumping?”  Rhodey asked, leaning back in his seat. 

“We are doing neither of those, because we are not nineteen, but rather, mature men, who are over that kind of---you know, a high-five would not be out of order,” Tony responded with a wide smile.  Rhodey raised his palm in the air, and Tony slapped it, feeling stupid and giddy and happy all at the same time.  “He quit his job.  We’re dating.  We had dinner last night…this great dinner—thanks, Pep—and we talked about, God, I don’t know. Everything.  Us.  Our relationship.  What we wanted.  Sex.  I think Steve needs some sex.  Like, a lot of sex, probably.  But, slow, no pressure, you know?   I need to research.  I don’t want to—to have it happen too fast or make it a big thing, but then this morning, we were joking, and maybe it isn’t a big thing, and I’m making it a big thing.  Am I making it a big thing?  Shit.  I haven’t been this nervous since, well.  Since the first time, I guess.  Though, that was mostly just because I understood basic principles of volume and capacity.”

“It’s pretty common, guys coming back from injury like that.  For there to be issues, I mean,” Rhodey clarified.  “If you’re talking about it, that’s good.  He really quit?”

“Yep.  Took a bit of doing.  Barnes, mostly.  There was, the, ah.  The money thing,” Tony said, pulling out the chair next to Rhodey.

“You mean the billion-dollar elephant in the room?” Rhodey asked.

“Yeah, that.  It’s hard for him, and I get that, and I’m trying not to be too—you know. Too me, about it,” Tony said.  “He’s giving me a key to his apartment.”

“See?  Told you,” Rhodey replied.  “Look, Tony…just remember…Steve, he kind of likes you being you.  In case you missed the rampant swooning that happened every time you were you back in college.  You keep being you, and I’ll bet that’s going to work out a lot better for you than this whole tying yourself in knots to be who you think you should be.  Not saying you don’t take your foot off the gas a bit, but Steve, man, that dude has one of those cartoon hearts thump out of his chest every time you walk in a room.  If it were anyone but you, I’d find it kind of nauseating, tell you the truth.”

“I think its sweet.  Adorable really.  There is something about true love that just, I don’t know, just makes me want to TALK ABOUT THESE GRAPHS,” Pepper said, leaning over the table and tapping at the stack of papers in front of Tony. 

“Someone have a Gal-entine’s Day this year?” Tony asked.  “Graphs, right,” Tony said quickly at Pepper’s sharp look of rebuke.  “I love graphs.  Not as much as my CFO, but, not going to lie, this one with the colored bars is making me all tingly,” Tony said, holding up the paper for Rhodey to see, while Rhodey shook his head in warning. 

The rest of the morning went by in a series of pie charts, line graphs, financial projections and a short phone call with Rhodey’s contact at the Army Corps of Engineers, who went over some of the finer points of what the Army’s latest Request for Proposals for renewable energy sources, a seven-billion-dollar contract just sitting out there with literally no one able to meet the procurement requirements the Army was demanding.  Well, no one yet, at any rate. Tony hoped today’s Board meeting would be the first step to inking that deal. 

Tony shoved the last quarter of a donut in his mouth and licked the pad of his thumb as he stepped into the elevator.  He hit the button for the executive floor, which housed Obie’s office, among others, and rocked back and forth on his heels as the elevator made the short trip.  Tapping the screen of the tablet in his hand, Tony pulled up the outline that Pepper had prepared for the Board and let his eyes wander over it one more time.  Between his impromptu brainstorming session with Steve last night and today’s meeting with Pepper and Rhodey, he was as ready as he could be for whatever objections Obie or anyone else on the Board might have. 

The elevator doors slid open and Tony walked briskly down the hall towards Obie’s office, earning a few startled looks from the various assistants and managers who officed on this floor.  It wasn’t as if he never came here, he thought with a huff.  He’d been here when…no, wait, that had been a projection of the building schematic.  Well, practically the same thing.

Tony waved past Obie’s assistant and threw open the office door, finding the man himself lining up a golf shot on a small putting mat. Obie looked over at Tony, raised his eyebrows and chewed at the ubiquitous cigar in his mouth, before turning his attention back to the put.  He gave it a light tap and it rolled in a straight line down the mat, veering just to the left of the rim of the cup.

“Close, but no cigar?” Tony quipped, walking over to drop on the long, brown leather sofa that sat in the middle of the office. 

“Close only counts in grenades and horseshoes,” Obie announced loudly, frowning down at the putter in his hand.  “Well.  The prodigal son returns. Good to see you, Tony.  Been a while.  Come in, come in. Close the door, would you, Liz? We’d like not to be disturbed.  Thanks,” Obie said with a nod to his assistant, who pulled the door closed behind Tony with a soft snick.  “That your presentation?” Obie asked, nodding at the tablet in Tony’s lap.  He leaned the putter against the arm of one of the matching leather chairs and bent down to stub out his cigar into a cinder-filled glass ashtray on the corner of the marble-topped coffee table.

“All ready to go,” Tony replied, tapping his fingers across the screen.  “I had Pepper send you an early copy.  Don’t know if you’ve…gotten a chance to look it over yet.”

“Oh, I took a look,” Obie said.  He made his way over to the small bar and picked up a large decanter, which swirled with amber liquid, and held it up in offer.  Tony shook his head.  “Right.  Forgot.”

“I know, when we talked before, you weren’t totally sold.  This is a big change.  Obviously. For you, me, the company.  Everyone, really,” Tony continued.  “I’m not saying we turn this on overnight.  But, if you look at the numbers, the market’s there.  We’ll lose money on start-up, sure, but our tech brands are huge profit centers.  The stock’ll take a hit, sure, but they’ll carry us until we’re up and running.  I’m sure there’s a graph.”

Obie finished pouring his drink, back still to Tony, though Tony saw him glance up in the mirror above the bar, before he turned around and walked over to sit in one of the overstuffed leather chairs opposite Tony.

“It is a big change,” Obie said agreeably, sipping at his drink.  “Lots of change happening lately.”

“True.  The military market has been downsizing since Iraq, and there’s—“ Tony began.

“I mean with you,” Obie interrupted.  He took another drink, then set the glass down on top of one of the magazines that were displayed on the coffee table.  It was the Forces, with Tony and Obie on the cover, Tony noted.  “Lots of changes.  Hear you’re slumming in the Brooklyn real estate market nowadays.  Once upon a time, I couldn’t drag you out of that workshop of yours, and now, apparently, you don’t even live here anymore.  Not that I can blame you.  Who hasn’t gone back for seconds a time or two?”

“It’s…more than that, Obie,” Tony said, trying to keep his tone carefully neutral.  “Steve…we were—see, actually—God, this is awkward.  I don’t know what Dad told you.  If he told you anything.  Fuck.  Okay, back in college, I kind of got married.  It…Dad, he…wasn’t thrilled about it, let’s just say.  Interfered.  Which is a nice way of saying fucked up my life.  Steve and I divorced.  Or, we thought we did. There was some problem with the papers.  Jarvis, I think.  He messed it up, trying to help, only then they died, and 9/11 happened, and everything that maybe could’ve gotten fixed, didn’t.  I don’t know.  I don’t know, Obie, it’s crazy, the whole thing.  I know how it sounds.  Insane, right? But, it’s real, and I’m…happy.  I’m happy, Obie.”

“Then, I’m happy for you,” Obie said after a beat of silence.  “Howard, huh?  Well.  Howard was a brilliant man.  The way he ran this company.  The things he built.  Brilliant.  But, fatherhood…Nevermuch seemed his thing.”

“Understatement, but, basically, yeah,” Tony said.  “But, we—me and Steve—we figured it out.  Took ten years, and I’m…I’m really trying not to think too much about that.  We’re getting back together.  Steve, he’s—he’s great, Obie.  The best.  Army veteran.  Artist.  You’ll like him.”

“I’m sure I will,” Obie replied.  “Looking forward to meeting him one of these days.  You planning on bringing him by, or going to keep hiding out down there in Brooklyn?”

“I’m…working on it,” Tony said with a huff of a laugh. 

“Sounds like you’re working on a lot of things.  Must be hard.  Juggling all that,” Obie observed mildly.  He leaned forward and picked up his drink glass again, taking a small sip before setting it back down on the magazine.  There was a circular indentation around Tony’s face, just next to where the title of the article suggested Tony was the new kid, taking the reins of the company at twenty-one.  Old article to keep around, Tony wondered to himself.  The strange certainty that it was deliberate settled somewhere in the back of his mind with an uncomfortable ringing in his ears. 

“Not so hard,” Tony said.  “Well, I mean, the thing with Steve, that’s been…it’s been a hell of a couple of weeks, but not in a bad way.  We just had a lot to work through, but we’re getting there.”

“Sounds serious,” Obie replied, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he leaned back against the tufted leather chair.

“Yes.  I think so.  I hope so,” Tony said.  “Look, Obie, not that I don’t appreciate this whole manly bonding moment thing we have going, but the Board meeting is in a couple of hours, and I’d really like to go over—“

“Just an interesting coincidence,” Obie cut in.  “You and this Steve, rekindling the old flame, and then, now, this whole energy thing coming up again.  After we’d already discussed it, and the reasons why it wasn’t a good idea.”

“Those were early discussions, back when it was just an idea—a concept.  We’re so much further now, Obie.  I’m _this_ close.  It’s going to work,” Tony told him.  “We got the Army Corps onboard.  They’re looking for different renewable sources—solar, geo, wind, whatever, but this…this could replace all those at a fraction of the cost.  Pepper’s got all the financial data.  I’ve talked to R &D, manufacturing, marketing, legal…we’re there.  We can do this.  I know, it’s a risk.  We’ve been a weapons manufacturer since Dad hung out his shingle.  But, I think it’s one we have to take.  We’re…supplying an industry where the market has become something I barely recognize.   It’s not like when you and Dad started. There’s no Big Bad to fight, not anymore.  We stopped fighting to protect freedom.  Now, we just…fight what we tell the people to fear, and call that security.”

“We create weapons. We don’t create the wars they’re used to fight, Tony,” Obie pointed out.    

“Don’t we?  Not directly, I know, but, putting aside our lobbying efforts, and I get that’s part of the way this works, but, we make it so much easier, Obie,” Tony argued.  “You know we do. So much easier for them to send our men and women—people like Steve—on a damn fool’s errand, and nothing happens to change it.  Nothing.  We’re part of a system that has zero accountability.  I’ve been…struggling with this for, well, a long time.  Since before you and I first talked, I guess.  Its more than just profit and stock options, Obie.  We have an obligation to do the highest good for this country.  I think we can do better.  I _know_ we can.  I have more to offer this world than just making things that blow up.  I don’t want a body count to be our legacy.”

“You really have changed, haven’t you?” Obie said. 

“I’m trying,” Tony said with a small grimace. 

“Love will do that.  Makes us a bit crazy sometimes, doesn’t it?” Obie asked.  

“Steve, he…he makes me feel like I can do anything. Dangerous, I know,” Tony acknowledged, canting his head to the side and raising his eyebrows in rueful admission. 

“He must be very important to you,” Obie observed.

“He is.  More important than anything,” Tony replied. 

“Hmm,” Obie mused, reaching again for his drink and finishing off the last bit of gold in the bottom of the glass before setting it down on the table with a clink.  “Listen to me, Tony.  We’re a team. Do you understand?  There’s nothing we can’t do if we stick together.  Like your father and I.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Tony said with a rush of relief.  “Obie, we can do this.  You and me, we—“

“We have to be responsible here, Tony.  Not just to ourselves, but to the company,” Obie said.

“I’m being responsible!  Admittedly, something of a new direction for me,” Tony agreed, rolling his eyes a bit.  “I mean me, on the company’s behalf, being responsible for the way that…”

“Tony,” Obie cut in.  “This…hippie science project of yours, that’s not being responsible.  We’re iron mongers, Tony.  It’s what we do.  It’s what we’ve always done.  You make the weapons, I make sure the company makes money.  That’s how it works.”

“Not anymore, Obie.  I can’t.  Not anymore.  I’m sorry.  I really am.  But, if you can’t support this, I understand, but…I’ll have to ask you to step down,” Tony said, leaning forward on the sofa so his elbows were braced on his legs. 

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Obie admitted.  He scooted forward in his chair and reached across the coffee table to move the Forbes magazine he’d been using as a coaster out of the way.  A stapled sheaf of white papers was underneath.  “I was administrator for your parents’ estate, if you recall.  This was in your father’s papers.”

Tony looked down at the papers with dawning horror.  The top of the first page blared the words Restraining Order in dark, bold letters.

“Obie, that’s…that’s not what it looks like. There was a mistake.  I told you, Dad, he—“ Tony started shakily, the words seeming to rush out  and tumble over one another in their hurry.

“Maybe your father knew more than you give him credit for,” Obie observed in a sharp, clipped tone.  “I don’t know what this is, this new Kumbaya crap you’re spouting, or where it came from, but you are not going to drive the company I spent decades of my life building into the ground.  If this, as distasteful as it may be, if it’s the only way to protect you, to protect this company, then I’ll do what I have to do.”

“Are you—is that a threat?” Tony demanded, launching himself off the sofa to pace around the room.  “This isn’t even…there’s nothing here, Obie.  It’s lies.  It wasn’t even real.  Dad got some judge he paid off to sign a bogus order.  I never even saw this.”

“Really?  Because your affidavit here says differently.  Now, you’re back with the guy who threatened you?  Stalked you?  And, coincidentally enough, you suddenly want to tank the company on some anti-war bullshit project, with your ex-Army boyfriend pushing you right along,” Obie said.  “I’ll file for an injunction to lock you out, if I have to, Tony.  I think this, the move to Brooklyn, your newfound vanity project, along with your past behavior, should be enough to give the Board pause.  Post-traumatic stress disorder or whatever they’re calling it these days.  Maybe it won’t hold, not forever.  Maybe you convince them there’s nothing strange about your little about-face here.  Maybe.  But, ask yourself, how’s that shiny, new husband of yours going to feel about seeing this on the front page of the Times?”

“You can’t…Obie, you can’t.  This would…” Tony stammered, his mind flashing to Steve’s face when he’d pulled out the wrinkled papers and shown them to Tony that night in Steve’s apartment.  “This would destroy him.”

“Well, then.  Seems you have a decision to make, my boy,” Obie smirked.  “Is your little pet project worth risking that?”

Tony stared vacantly at Obie for a long moment, then slumped slowly back down onto the sofa in stunned disbelief.  Obie pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to stand by the arm of the sofa where Tony stared dully at the papers in his hand.  He felt Obie’s large hand fall heavily on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. 

“Ain’t love grand?” Obie asked, with a short, low chuckle.  “I’ll tell Liz to cancel the Board meeting.  I’m having dinner with Senator Stern at the Union Club.  I’ll tell him you said hello.”

He took the bus back to the apartment. Well, three buses.  Actually, four, because he got on the wrong one and had to double back.  He could have called Happy, but, honestly wasn’t sure he could handle the interaction.  His phone buzzed incessantly the first hour or so.  No doubt, Pepper and Rhodey wanting to know why the Board meeting had been called off so abruptly.  He couldn’t deal with them, either. 

It occurred to him that he was probably in shock. 

He would have to talk to them, sooner or later, if only because Crockett and Tubbs there would hunt him down if he didn’t.   I’m choosing Steve, he thought.  They would understand.  This thing with Steve, it was too new, too fragile.  He couldn’t allow Steve to be put through that, not now, when Steve was stutter-stepping so carefully towards Tony.  Who knew what Obie’s revelations could do to Steve’s already precarious mental state, Tony thought, his mind conjuring up the image of little white pills scattering across white tiles. 

The bus pulled up to the stop outside of their building, and Tony made his way down the steps once the doors swung open.  A swirl of icy wind hit him as soon as he stepped onto the curb.  He looked up at the lighted windows with a hollow, dull ache in his chest that seemed to draw tighter each time he thought about Obie’s betrayal. 

His feet were heavy and sluggish as he moved up the stairs and into the brightly lit vestibule.  Bits of the day’s mail were sticking out of the small, metal mailboxes.  Stan was standing in front of his open box, pulling out a stack of magazines that Tony would probably never be able to un-see.

“Evening, Mr. Stank,” Stan said, greeting him with a jaunty wave of Busty Beauties magazine.

“Hey, Stan,” Tony returned, making his way up the stairs.  He stopped at the last step to the landing he shared with Steve and let his chin dip to his chest, sucking in a deep breath.  This wasn’t the end of the world.  He would keep on doing what he was doing.  Obie would retire eventually.  The market could change.  Lots of things could change, but he’d have Steve.  He had to focus on that. Steve needed him.  Needed his help.  And Steve loved him.  That was what was important.  He couldn’t repay that by being a selfish dick just because he wasn’t getting his way.

Off to his right, there was a soft click as Steve’s door pulled open. 

“You’re back!  That was fast,” Steve called out. “How’d it go?  I wanted to call, but I wasn’t sure how long you’d be, and I’d didn’t want to interrupt.  I’ve been dying to hear, though.  Did they go for it? Tony?  What…oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Tony repeated.  “Actually, we, ah.  After some discussion with management,” Tony began, taking the last step onto the landing.  “It’s just not the right time for this kind of major restructuring.  The stock would take at least a forty-point hit, and we have outstanding contracts that need our resources.  This, the reactor thing, it’s not even more than a prototype, and…well, it’s just not the right time.  Maybe one day, you know?”

“Oh,” Steve responded flatly.  “Ah, Tony, I’m sorry.  I know this was important to you,” he said, pulling a face and walking over to Tony. Before Tony quite knew what was happening, he was enveloped in a warm hug, his face pressed against the curve of Steve’s neck. 

“Yeah,” Tony admitted shakily, the words muffled into Steve’s skin.  “It was.  But. It isn’t the most important thing.  Not like I can’t live without it.”

Steve stayed wrapped around Tony a beat longer, then pulled back and put some space between them.  His hands came up to cup the sides of Tony’s face, and he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Tony’s cold lips. 

“Come on,” Steve urged.  “Let’s get you warmed up.”

“Ah, crap, I was going to bring dinner,” Tony said, following Steve into his apartment.  “Sorry—I just. I forgot.”

“I’ll order some Chinese, how about?” Steve suggested.  “Sit.  You…Tony, are you sure you’re okay?” Steve asked, eyes narrowing as Tony sat down heavily on the narrow bed. 

“Never better,” Tony said with a sigh. “I have you.”  He looked up at Steve, who was standing at the kitchen counter with a take-out menu in one hand, and realized it was completely true.  “Really.  I’m good.  Hungry, though.”

Tony let himself lean back against the wall while Steve called in an order to the Chinese place.  He closed his eyes and splayed a hand across his forehead, digging his fingers into his temples. 

“Tony?” Steve said in a strange, questioning voice. 

“Yeah?” Tony asked without opening his eyes.

“Why do I have a message from James asking if I knew why you canceled the Board meeting?”  Steve asked. 

“Told you.  Wasn’t the right time,” Tony said dully, sitting up on the bed. 

“What did Stane say to you?” Steve pressed.  “Tony?  What did he say?”

“Nothing.  Nothing, we just talked about some of the ramifications. That’s it.  He had good points.  The stock—“ Tony tried.

“Yeah, I know about the stock.  Thing is, you knew about the stock hit last night. There was a graph.  None of that was new information.  But, you meet with Stane, and suddenly, there’s no way this project can work?  What’d he say to you?” Steve asked.  If he didn’t know Steve, Tony would have thought Steve was just mildly curious, but he did know Steve, and this was Steve’s dog-with-a-bone tone, and either he had to cut it off now or there was no getting it out of Steve’s teeth, the damn, stubborn man.

“Nothing.  Forget it, okay?  It’s done.  Over. Can we just…can we let it go?” Tony pleaded. 

“Tony, what happened?  You can tell me.  Whatever it is…look, we’ve done this before.  This thing where we don’t tell each other things because we don’t want the other to get hurt.  How’d that work out for us?” Steve asked softly. 

“Not well,” Tony admitted after a moment.  He swallowed, trying to work past the lump in his throat, looked over at the box on the shelf, then raised his gaze to Steve’s.

“It’s about us, isn’t it?  That’s what he said.  What, did he…because I’m a janitor?  Because, what…because I quit, is that it?  Or…” Steve trailed off, frowning deeply.  “Is it the pills?  I have a prescription for those,” he said quickly and too loudly, and Tony could hear the panicked defensiveness creeping in at the edges.  “The doctor could tell him.”

“No.  No, it’s not…it’s not that, Steve,” Tony replied with a heavy sigh. 

“What then?  The money?  I told you, we should get a pre-nup.  Or, what do they call it?  Post-nup?  Something.  If we did, then maybe—“ Steve started.

“It’s not the money.  Well.  It’s a little the money, but not because.  Shit,” Tony broke off.  He stood up and paced in a short circle for a moment, hands going to his hips as he forced himself to a halt and turned to look at Steve.  Tony ran a hand through his hair, then down over his mouth, and shook his head.  There was really no good way to say it, he supposed.  “He has the Restraining Order.”

“Oh,” Steve said, sounding remarkably calm.

“It was in with my Dad’s papers.  Obie threatened to go public with it.  File for an injunction, so I couldn’t vote at the meeting.  The implication being that I’ve, I don’t know, fallen under the influence of my abusive ex or some stupid shit like that.  My little move to BFE and seemingly sudden desire to cut our major profit center not exactly helping my case,” Tony explained.  “I’m sorry.  God, Steve, I’m sorry.  I never—I never thought.  Obie, he’s been there my whole life.  I mean, maybe he does really see it that way, maybe he really is worried, I don’t know.  I don’t know.  I would never put you through that.  I couldn’t.  Just, no.  No.  So.  That’s where we are.  It isn’t forever.  Eventually, he’ll come around or retire or whatever.  Fuck, I don’t know, but it’s done, okay?  Just forget it.  Let’s eat our dumplings or whatever, and just—can we just not talk about this anymore?  Please?”

“Tony,” Steve said, putting down the menu and walking over to grasp Tony’s shoulders in both hands.  “Hey.  Hey, it’s okay,” Steve soothed. 

“I know.  I know it’s okay. I made it okay.  For us.  That’s what I’m saying,” Tony replied numbly.  “It’s fine.  You and me.  We’re fine. That’s what matters.  I fixed it.  I can’t…I can’t lose you. Not again.  I won’t.  It isn’t worth it.  Nothing’s worth that, Steve. Nothing.  So, let’s just…move on.  Okay?  Forget it. It’s done.”

“Tony,” Steve said again. “You’re too close to this.  You’d see it, otherwise.”

“I think I see things just fine,” Tony retorted.  “Obie made it pretty damn clear.”

“I’ll be he did,” Steve said.  “He’s not going to go to the papers with that Restraining Order, Tony.”

“Yes, he will.  He will, Steve. You don’t know him.  I thought I did, but…” Tony said, looking down and away.  His eye caught on the line of progressively less-bowlish vases on the bookcase, and he let out a shuddering sigh. 

“Oh, I think I have his number pretty well,” Steve replied.  “You said your Dad just visited the East Coast occasionally.  On business or for a conference.” 

“Don’t see what Dad’s travel schedule has to do with any of this,” Tony said with a shrug.

“Because Stane was running your East Coast operations then, right?”  Steve continued. 

“Yeah.  So?” Tony asked.

“Stane, who you said used to be a Long Island prosecutor.  Who might have known a judge that could be bought,” Steve explained. 

“That’s…I mean, yeah, I guess.  Maybe,” Tony hedged uncertainly.  “That still doesn’t…”

“Tony, no way your Dad just picks a judge out of a hat to write up a phony Restraining Order,” Steve pointed out.

“The company was a campaign contributor,” Tony answered, but there was already doubt creeping in at the edges of his mind, even as he said it.

“Bet SI contributes to a lot of campaigns,” Steve replied.  “But, to know enough about a judge to know you can go to him with something like that?  That’s a bit beyond a political favor.”

“The Union Club,” Tony said suddenly, snapping his gaze up to Steve’s.  “Obie’s a member.  He’s having dinner there with a Senator now.  That was on the judge’s profile that Pepper put together.  He’s a member, too.  God, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.  Like I said, you’re just too close to this,” Steve replied, letting his hands drop from Tony’s shoulders and pulling Tony’s hand until they were both sitting on the twin bed. 

“Even if you’re right,” Tony began haltingly.  “It doesn’t change anything.  So, Obie’s been a bastard for longer than I thought.  Big deal. He still has the Order, and, yeah, maybe he wouldn’t use it.  Maybe.  He’s still dead set against the reactor project.  It’s too big a risk to call his bluff, Steve.  It—no. We can’t.  _I_ can’t.”

“He doesn’t give two shits about your reactor project,” Steve said, standing up abruptly and walking over to the kitchen counter, hands fisted at his waist. 

“I’m pretty sure he kind of does,” Tony said.

“No.  No, he doesn’t.  Not really.  Oh, sure, he wants to keep making weapons, I have no doubt, but this?  This is way beyond arguing about an argument about allocating corporate resources,” Steve said.  “No one is going to blackmail someone like you with a forged legal document they were involved in forging just because they don’t want to take an early retirement golden parachute.  That makes no sense. No, this is…something else.”

“What?  There _is_ nothing else,” Tony said. 

“He doesn’t want you involved with the company.  That’s it.  That’s the thing that’s changed,” Steve replied, snapping his fingers at Tony.  “You’re suddenly involved in the company’s business in a way you haven’t been before.”

“Okay, so he’s, what, weirdly possessive about the company?  I mean, he is, I guess, but…wait…the weapons.  The shipment that went missing and turned up on the black market.  He’s running the investigation on our end.  Coordinating with DoJ.  I just asked for an update,” Tony recounted.  “The damn weapons.”

“Let me guess, your CEO volunteered for that particular duty,” Steve said, mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. 

“Well, he was a former prosecutor.  God,” Tony said, shaking his head and running a quavering hand through his already mussed hair.  “How could I be so stupid?  It isn’t one shipment, is it?”

“He wouldn’t have started with a shipment that large, no,” Steve replied. 

“Fuck.  Fuck!  God-damn it, how did I miss this?” Tony demanded. 

“This isn’t your fault, Tony. This is greed and power and not caring who gets hurt as long as he gets what he wants,” Steve said.  “He’s a bully.  In a fancy suit, with a big title and a long reach.  But, still just a bully.  Trust me.  That’s one thing I know how to recognize.”

“Jesus.  This…I don’t even know where to begin,” Tony said.

“Can you call your Board together again?” Steve asked.

“Yeah.  They’re all still in town, I think, or we can get them on video conference.  I can have Pepper—“ Tony stammered.  “But, shit, Steve.  I—we have no proof.  This is all…we could be wrong.  Way wrong.”

“Do you think we’re wrong?” Steve asked.

“No.  No, I don’t.  I wish we were, but, no, I don’t,” Tony said flatly.  “Even if we’re right, it doesn’t do us any good if there’s no proof.”

“There’s always a trail.  You’ll find it,” Steve said with all the confidence in the world, the way probably only Steve could. 

“Maybe.  Maybe not.  If I can’t find proof, this could still blow up in our faces.  There’s nothing to say he won’t leak that Restraining Order or God only knows what else,” Tony reminded him. 

“So what if he does?” Steve asked. 

“Steve…I can’t ask you to…you don’t know how the press can be.  I tried to tell you last night, but…believe me, this isn’t how I want to introduce you to life as my husband,” Tony replied.

“You gotta let me catch you sometimes, too, Tony,” Steve said quietly.  “You were ready to give up on your dream project just because you thought it might hurt me.  I want you to do this, Tony.  If we’re wrong, or if the situation goes South on us, well…we’ll deal with it.  Together this time, okay?”

“Together, huh?” Tony repeated. 

“Always,” Steve said softly, walking over to stand in front of Tony.  Tony slid his arms around Steve’s waist and pressed the side of his head into Steve’s shoulder.  “Always, Tony.  I promise.  You were really going to give up your dream project because you thought I might get hurt?”

“That’s…there’s really no contest there.  I love you,” Tony whispered.  “The company, this project, the money, none of that…none of that’s even close, Steve.  You’re the thing I can’t live without.  The only thing.”

“I love you, too,” Steve said, his warm breath ruffling the top of Tony’s head. 

“I need to call Pepper and Rhodey.  Get the Board gathered for an emergency meeting.  Have JARVIS start analyzing records, see what he can find,” Tony said, though he made no move to dislodge himself from Steve’s embrace.

“Jarvis?” Steve questioned in obvious bafflement.  “I thought…”

“Just A Rather Very Intelligent System,” Tony explained with a huff of a laugh.  “My A.I.  A bit of an homage to the man.”

“A.I. like Dum-E?” Steve asked.

“If you say that in front of him, I can’t be responsible for his actions,” Tony chuckled, shifting out of Steve’s embrace.  “I should…”

“You want me to come with you?” Steve offered.

“Would you?” Tony asked in surprise.  “You don’t have to.  But, yeah.  I’d like that.”

“Well, sounds like Team Happily Ever After has a mission,” Steve replied with a grin.  His eyes were bright as he looked down at Tony.  “Feels like we’re gonna have to say it,” Steve said with a dramatic sigh.

“Oh, God, you can’t be serious.  That was college.  We were idiots.  We used that for beer runs, cross-campus couch moves and that time we waited forty-five minutes because Rhodey swore streakers were going to run across Kresge Oval, and it turned out to just be Rhodey with a strategically placed garbage can lid because everyone else chickened out. We are mature, grown-up…yeah, okay, but, I get to do Pepper and Rhodey,” Tony said eagerly.

 “Seems fair,” Steve agreed, pulling out his phone and hitting the button for Barnes. 

“Hey, Steve, what’s—“ Barnes started through the speaker.

“Stark Tower,” Steve cut in, then aimed a huge, wide smile at Tony, who mouthed ‘Dork’ back at him and rolled his eyes.  “Assemble!”

The Board meeting took four hours.  Tony was exhausted, mentally and physically.  He wanted a drink.  He wasn’t going to have one, but he wanted one.  That, unfortunately, would probably always be true. 

He wanted Steve more, though, so there was that. 

The elevator doors slid open to the landing leading to his workshop.  There was a low light coming from inside.  Through the glass, Tony could see Steve sitting on a swivel stool, with Dum-E and U paying rapt attention to whatever it was Steve was doing.  Tony pressed closer to the glass, trying to see.

Steve was holding out a tray of colored pencils while the ‘bots whirred their pincers around to find the right one.

_Oh_ , Tony breathed out, feeling the world click into place.  So, this is what it’s like to come home.

Tony watched through the glass for a minute longer, something warm and familiar settling itself in his chest.  He typed the code into the panel and the door whooshed open.  Steve looked over his shoulder and smiled in greeting. 

“They’re amazing, Tony,” Steve said.  “Dum-E, he remembered everything.  Just like before.  But, better.  He’s been learning.”

“Just like before.  But, better,” Tony said quietly, walking over to his workstation and taking a seat.  “Lots of learning going on around here.”

“How did the meeting go?” Steve asked.  His shoulders were tight with tension, and Tony could see the muscle flexing in Steve’s cheek.  Worried.  About Tony.  Worried, but not scared, Tony noted.  Not scared, because they were in this, whatever it was, together.  And that made all the difference.

_Fall back, and I’ll catch you._

That was what they did.  Why they needed each other so much. 

“The Board approved the reactor project,” Tony announced, clapping his hand together.  “And fired Obadiah Stane.  They’re putting an interim CEO in place while we do a search.  Someone who, as it turns out, has my implicit trust.  Pepper.”

“Really?  That’s…that’s great, Tony,” Steve said with obvious relief.  “Does that mean you found something to connect Stane to the weapons?”

“Offshore accounts,” Tony explained.  “Turns out, my little foray into tracking down where our friendly judge was keeping his ill-gotten gains rather panicked Obie.  I couldn’t find anything that connected the judge to S.I., but I had JARVIS keep looking.  Lift up enough rocks, and you’ll find something.  That whole subsidiary was a front for laundering money.  Money that Obie was getting under the table for selling our weapons to the highest bidder, then hiding in offshore accounts down in the Cayman Islands.”

“Wow,” Steve replied, drawing back. “That’s…”

“Terrible. Awful.  Grossly irresponsible of me to have missed, take your pick,” Tony acknowledged with a flat grimace. 

“You didn’t know.  This isn’t on you, Tony,” Steve argued.

“It isn’t completely not on me, either,” Tony replied.  “I was too involved in burying myself in my work and a host of other things that weren’t about responsibility.  But, as we have learned in a pretty pointed way lately, I can’t change the past.  All I can do is do better going forward.”

“You will,” Steve said with his usual absolute certainty in Tony.  The kind that made Tony want to be the person Steve thought he was.  “Um…speaking of doing better going forward…I brought you something,” Steve said.

“Yeah?” Tony said, looking around in surprise. 

“It isn’t much, really,” Steve said, picking up a small bag from next to the stool.  He reached inside and pulled out the red and gold vase that had been his latest project and rolled it lightly between his palms.  “It’s kind of messed up,” Steve continued in a strange, tight voice.  “It doesn’t really fit in here, with all your fancy stuff.  But,” he said, holding it out to Tony. “If you want it, I guess it’s really always been yours.”

Tony frowned with a bit of confusion, but reached out to take the vase.  It was when his fingers grasped the neck and Steve released it that Tony heard the clink.  He held the vase up in front of him, with the fluorescent lights shining through it, and saw it, sitting there, on the bottom of the vase. 

His ring.

The small, silver band with the hands holding the heart gleamed red and gold through the glass.

“Figured you’d say yes to at least one of these,” Steve said softly. 


	14. Epilogue

“Excuse me, ladies.  Gentlemen.  May I borrow my husband for a moment?” Tony asked, cutting in to the circle of guests surrounding Steve.  “Won’t take long.  Just a few more pictures.”

“More pictures?” Steve groaned, but a smile broke through it. 

“Can I help it if we look this good?” Tony asked, tracing his fingers down the lapels of his black tuxedo. 

“Sorry,” Steve said, stepping away from the group.  He took Tony’s hand in his and gave it a light squeeze, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to Tony’s temple.  “Missed you.”

“It’s been like ten minutes since we said ‘I do.’  Again,” Tony pointed out with a low chuckle.  “Missed you, too,” he admitted, pressing his head against Steve’s shoulder as they walked along the hallway of Tony’s Hampton’s estate, which was currently hosting a few hundred of their closest friends celebrating what Steve and Tony were privately calling a vow renewal, but which most of New York seemed to think of as the best Cinderella story they’d heard since Cindy lost her Louboutin. 

“In here,” Tony said, pointing to a large, glass-enclosed room that held a grand piano and a few comfortable looking sofas. 

And a photo booth.

“Tony,” Steve said in a slightly overwhelmed voice. “Where did you find it?”

“Took some doing.  Wasn’t at Coney Island anymore.  Ended up at some seedy roadside place upstate.  Had to completely refurbish it, but it’s as hideous as ever now,” Tony replied, watching the play of emotions across Steve’s face. 

“You didn’t have to do this, but…” Steve began, eyes glistening as he looked down at Tony.  “I’m glad you did.”

“We started here,” Tony said.  “Our life. It was supposed to start here.  We have the pictures to prove it.  Both of us, we kept them, hung on to that.  I don’t think we could quite let it go, you know?  We can’t go back, I know that.  But…I just thought, this is how we should start it this time, too.  Except, we do it right.  The way it was supposed to be.”

“Do you…do you have…” Steve asked, glancing around the room.

“Ah,” Tony said, walking over to one of the paisley-covered chairs and picking up Marvin.  Slightly faded with age, but weren’t they all?  “Couldn’t do this without him, could we?”

“Definitely not,” Steve agreed.  He held the curtain to the photo booth open for Tony, then slid in behind him.  It was cramped.  More cramped than Tony remembered, he thought with a small laugh.  Steve sat down on the bench, and Tony perched himself on Steve’s knee, twisting his head to look at Steve with a smile.  He held Marvin up between them, and turned to the camera. 

“Ready?” Tony asked.

“Ready when you are,” Steve replied, looking at Tony with the soft, crinkle-eyed expression that made Tony’s insides melt.  The camera flashed, and Tony turned again, trying to smile through stinging eyes.  It flashed again, and he felt Steve’s lips against his cheek.  Again, and he was turning to Steve, catching Steve’s mouth with his own.  One last time, and Steve was pressing a kiss to Tony’s forehead, Marvin smashed between them. 

Tony pulled back and looked up at Steve with a watery smile.  “You okay?” he asked at Steve’s odd expression.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’m okay.  It’s just…” Steve began, looking down at Tony.  He brought a hand up and brushed a lock of hair off Tony’s forehead. 

“Kaboom.”


	15. Fanart by snowzapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wonderful comic was done by the incredibly talented snowzapped. Check out their tumblr at snowzapped.tumblr.com for commission info!


	16. Fanart by superfizz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another wonderful fanart by superfizz (www.superfizz.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading and being so patient and supportive with me. If you enjoyed the fic, comments and/or a kudos are most sincerely appreciated. Those are manna from heaven for an author, and the only way I know if you were entertained. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at sabrecmc.tumblr.com, if you want to come say hi. We also have a Stony fic Imzy community! Go here to request an invite, if you don't already have one: https://www.imzy.com/bringing_food_to_lab_stony


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